


Melodies

by senatorwiggles



Series: Age of Fire [4]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senatorwiggles/pseuds/senatorwiggles
Summary: "Melodies" contains a series of stories from the past and present of the unkindled Melody as he seeks to get by with as normal a life as possible.  A normal life for an academic is, of course, pursuing academia.  Despite the toxic nature of the Vinheim dragon school, Melody sustains a functional relationship with the only other genuine academic within Firelink Shrine.
Relationships: Orbeck of Vinheim & Ashen One
Series: Age of Fire [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685806
Comments: 30
Kudos: 10





	1. Preface

Thurston Rowell of Vinheim was one of the countries most accomplished Spooks. He could fill just about any role that required silence and misdirection. As such, he had become one of the most valuable intelligence officers of the Vinheim military. Of course, an assassin and thief, a spymaster, could never be a knight. He was content with that. He knew what knights were like, what the scholars at the dragon school were like, and he wanted nothing to do with it. 

Magic, he often said to his young grand nephew, did not need to be grand to be glorious. A knife in the dark can win a war far more easily than a thousand men, and in doing so it can save far more lives.

When Thurston had learned that his nephew had fathered a child and refused to take responsibility, he approached the infant’s mother. She wanted nothing to do with an infant-- she had to much to do, too much to learn, just as the infant’s father had claimed. Irritated that the two of them had been irresponsible and unwilling to pick up the fallout, Thurston insisted that he raise the child himself. He was old. He had the funds. He could acquire the help he needed. 

When the child came, the mother named him “Melody.” 

Melody was mistaken by his mother and his family as a girl in his youth. As time progressed, he watched Thurston and realized that he and the old man were similar. With a smile, some thought, and several conversations, Melody would never be mistaken for a woman again. Subtle magic, as Thurston had once told him, was often the most powerful.

\---

Melody darted down the hall way of the trade school. Several times he had attempted to complete his education in the formal dragon school, but time and time again he failed something minor but pivotal. The school was a toxic place filled with jealousy and closely guarded secrets. Each sorcerer held onto their knowledge like they did their blood, and such practices did not befit the man. His father, a bastard of a man with whom he had no relationship, taught mid-level soul sorceries in the Tower, and in Melody’s great acrobatic political feats to avoid ever dealing with the man, he’d brought about his first academic downfall.

In another attempt at hard academia, Melody had befriended a young woman who wanted to specialize in metallurgy. Eager to have a companion, he shared his note with her. Everything he learned was hers. She followed his lead and offered her knowledge to a colleague. The colleague stole both of their work, claimed their research, and progressed while leaving the two of them look like fools. It wasn’t that the other sorcerers thought the colleague had found the information on their own, but the older sorcerers knew that such reckless cooperation was unacceptable.

His third and last attempt was filled with bitterness and vitriol. An older student for how early he was in his education, Melody refused to socialize. He withdrew into himself and began to fall into a deep darkness. The final blow came when his great uncle’s companion passed away and his great uncle, the man who raised him, fell to illness. 

Melody dropped out of the dragonschool. 

He was no fool. The school was not for him, and his only family was soon to pass. Whatever his great uncle had done for a living was information he would likely never learn. The man, who had once been strong and indomitable, puttered about waiting for the fading fire to claim him. And when he went, Melody was alone.

So he adopted a trade. Dragon School be damned, carpentry and iron working called to him! The way wood wove through his hands, how iron took to the coals and melted into steel-- it put his hands and his mind to work that left no room for dread or sorrow. 

His daily path took him down three flights of stairs. Word had reached him that the trade school had acquired a new coal, and by the gods he wanted to experiment with it. He wanted to learn how to wring magic from all sources and embed them-- as it was, he was a simple farrier. His horse shoes were no more spectacular than any other smith’s, but each day he learned more. 

Until the day the crystal coal arrived.

So great was his excitement that when he reached half way down the second set of stairs, his long gangly legs worked against him. There was nothing to trip on. His shoes were secured. There was no debris. He cried out briefly in surprise, but the pain was momentary. It was the next student who found him who screamed.

The student, a younger fellow who had met Melody once before, would scream again at the man’s wake. As many students did, he attended for the free food. He didn’t need to see the body-- it was fine. He’d already had the misfortune of being behind the man when he tripped. 

_ Until Melody sat up in his coffin.  _

Waking and dragging a hand over his face, the poor boy screamed and fled. Before Melody could register his fate, several attendees flung charms and talismans at him, their spells breaking open and knocking him back into oblivion. 

He would be exiled, but a Lord would be quickly found. His would be a painfully short undeath.


	2. Evicted

Firelink shrine was no home. Home was where you hung your heart, and this place was a desolate, damp, dark, and dreary place. It would have smelled of mildew and rot if anything rotted anymore. Some how, despite being located up a great hill, water pooled on the stone floors in the lower section of the shrine. There were few dry places, and even those were not free of the clinging moisture. 

But Melody of Vinheim was a fortunate man. A crafty man. With very little adjusting of stone and rock and roots, he had shifted old headstones and tombs to make himself a little study with a desk made out of a sarcophagus and chairs out of rocks. All with a view of the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.  _ Andre.  _ All thick muscle with a wide back and a voice he could fall asleep to. It would be easy to explore the world and return to the shrine to collect himself and admire the shrine’s smith if he had a little nook to himself just out of the water… It was better for the soul than the Flame itself.

He looked forward to returning. The world was a strange and twisted place, and he wanted to map out how it changed. Farron woods, the land where he had died, had already shifted so strangely. The waters were poisoned, the people no longer human, the road leading to it twisted and broken with things he’d never seen before-- it was all exciting and new. The world was fresh again, or it was for him. But places that had once been safe were now dangerous, and he needed somewhere to go. Firelink shrine was dreary and miserable, but it served him well enough.

Most importantly, it gave him stability. He had a structure and a routine. Melody could wander the world for as long as his heart would let him, then when he became too stressed he could return to his little study, pull out the old book a long gone companion had once given him, and read to the pounding beat of Andre’s hammer. Or, if he had gotten lucky, he’d have brought back ink and paper, and he could draw that beautiful man.

Melody stopped abruptly when he saw someone's boots sticking out around the corner. He slowly looked around to see legs and a man connected to the boots, and the man sat where he had long claimed and arranged his little home. Of course, no space was private in the shrine, and he'd been gone long enough that all obvious signs of his claim had been dusted over. 

Where Melody had often draped his cloak was a stack of scrolls. Perched on what he'd often used as a desk was a very bored looking man staring right at him. A man in his place. On his desk. Sitting there quite comfortably. In a spot that Melody could not claim so long as he was there. His spot--

"Can I… help you?"

Melody snapped to. He hadn't been fully there, and he didn't expect a gravelly voice to come out of the slim man's body.

"Oh? Oh! No-- it's just that. It's just that uh. This is, ah. My spot."

"Your spot? I wasn't aware." The man made no attempt to move.

"Oh! No. No." Melody shifted nervously. "It's just. Ah. Unexpected. To see someone else here." He began tugging on his thumbs. "Clearly you have good taste in picking spots. No one can sneak up to you here… Of course I made it that way..." He slowly and nervously spun to survey other potential spots, his gaze fixing past the bridge near the thief. Would it be worth it to move? Or defend his claim? Melody looked back at the man and his arrangement. Already the candles dripped wax on the stone as if they’d been there for some time.

“You’ve set up quite neatly here…” His voice dropped with disappointment. The man glared at him, and Melody was suddenly aware of the ire he seemed to drip with. And the knife in his boot. And the particularly worn staff he kept beside him. It would be best then, he decided, to go without further protest.

He leaned side to side to see if anyone else was hiding in the nook under the stairs. It seemed a decent place to nestle in. There was no view of Andre, and he would undoubtedly hit his head on the ceiling of the cubby, but his mind was racing. His routine had been broken. “I’ll um. Let you do your thing then.” He spun on his heel to face the man again. His clothing was dark in the low light. Almost casual, as if he’d just come from town. It hardly looked like something to travel in. His eyes piercing. “We’ll likely be seeing each other frequently, even if only in passing. I’m Melody.” He bobbed his head side to side. “Of Vinheim.”

“Orbeck of Vinheim.”

The man leaned his elbow on his thigh and rolled a pebble through his finger. His skin, no paler than Melody’s, seemed ghostly between the flickering candle light and with his face framed so neatly in his dark hair, he truly looked like a phantom. A phantom with a nasty bored glare and at least two visible weapons. Melody wasn’t sure if Orbeck was truly glowering at him, if he just looked like that, or if it was the light making the man’s sharp features look hostile. Perhaps all of it-- Melody had come with the intent to reclaim his place. A place the man had set up quite comfortably in.

Still, he relaxed at the exchange of names, smiled, and let his shoulders fall. “Oh. I’m going to settle in again then. I hope I haven’t made too poor of an impression. It’ll be nice to have another fellow scholar around.” He felt his words were insincere, but this was a social game one had to play. It was always a game with rules hidden from him. 

“I’m sure of it.”

That gravelly voice. The way he idly flipped the pebble between his fingers. The cold gaze. The curt responses. Orbeck of Vinheim was either defensive or unaware. Melody could feel his day become worse and worse with each passing moment.

“Yes. Yes. Well. Uhm. I’ll be ah…” He turned and pointed vaguely to his future residence. “Good day.”

“Good day.”

He tried not to let the man’s tone get to him-- he’d likely been evicted from the school as he himself had, but it was hard. Melody spun around again, nervous, and used the motion to delay leaving. Tidying up that muddy little cubby would be miserable work. He’d have to find a way to mark it as his lest some other wayward undead try to claim it. He sighed and ducked off to the nook on the other side of the hall.

Orbeck watched the man with mild interest. The shrine was filled with transient souls as they came and went on their various quests. Few had bothered to approach him beyond his apparent patron, but not all was right with that man. At the knight’s insistence, he’d arrived to teach her sorcery, but the girl could barely wrap her head around the most basic of spells. Worse was her companion. He looked to Orbeck with fear. Fear of… something. He didn’t fear Orbeck himself, but there was a great tragedy in his gaze. 

Another sorcerer might have been welcome companionship, but he doubted this would yield anything amiable. The way the thin man dottered about, bounced like a nervous bird, and refused to stand for his own claims sat ill on him. And yet…

“Melody.” He called out, and the thin man paused and turned. He bent over as he turned as if he were ducking beneath something. “A moment, if you will.” Orbeck watched as Melody pulled his arms in towards his chest and took a few long steps to close the distance but stopping with several feet between them. 

“I have a patron,” Orbeck began. “The woman has promised to supply me with whatever scrolls she happens upon in exchange for an education.” Melody’s brows knotted, his gaze flicking to the sides before settling on Orbeck. “But…” His lips twitched in a smile, and he broke his gaze to look down at the stone. “I suspect she has an ulterior motive. A harmless one, but nonetheless. She has no intention to benefit from my services.”

Melody remained quiet as he waited for Orbeck’s announcement to become relevant to him. The man’s gaze turned back towards him, his eyes piercing and cold in the dark. His hand moving to his chin, his finger resting just below his lips as he thought. His voice quiet and low like the rumblings of distant thunder.

“What use is a school if no one learns?” 

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The dots not quite forming a connection for Melody, and Orbeck beginning to wonder if the man before him was genuinely not capable or just dense.

“It’s not a school,” he finally said. “Why are you telling me this? Are you...”

“I am. I am offering to share with you.” Orbeck’s lips formed a thin and irritated line. “I recognize the likelihood of the loss of whatever knowledge the woman brings me and how it compares to the likelihood of its permanent loss if I don’t share it with another sorcerer. You are a sorcerer, are you not? You frequent the shrine enough to have staked a weak claim on a location, do you not? Is it not a fair assumption to make that you will be in and out and capable?”

“I… yes.” Melody did not yet smile, so confused was he with the happenings. “I suppose that I have no qualms sharing with you, after all…” He smiled and waved a guarded hand towards Orbeck’s seating. “I’ve already shared my arrangement. But you’re sitting on the desk. And the napping slab is covered in wax. I need to… dig out a new hole, I suppose. But… Did you see a stack of scrolls when you arrived?”

“Were they portraits?”

“Ah. Yes. You looked at them then…”

“I did. Cornyx has them.” Orbeck smiled and chuckled softly, ducking his head. “He seemed to rather like your depictions of Andre. Very true to life.”

“Oh gods…”


	3. Tycho

“Did you have any family you left behind?”

Melody sat perched across the scroll covered slab from Orbeck. The man held out a dimly glowing scroll that one of the other Unkindled had brought to him. Something from Oocalice. Melody was eager to take a peek at it after Orbeck had finished with it.

“Family? No.” He made a mark on a fresh scroll, a copy to sell. “I had no such luxury.” Another mark. “But you must have.” He looked up from his work to the nervous man in blue. “Or you wouldn’t be asking.”

“Oh. Oh no. My uncle died long before I did.” He pulled on his thumbs. “I only knew one of my birth parents by name. A Tycho. Of Astora.”

\---

Tycho had not been born in Vinheim. He claimed the land as his home, but he was denied citizenship. His mother, Hilde Bann, was a citizen of Vinheim, and his father, Dieter Rowell, was a citizen of Vinheim, but Tycho had been born in Astora. He was a tall man, a broad man, and a ridiculously strong man.

Vinheim was not known for its knights. It was not known for its strong armed soldiers. It was known for its fantastic sorceries, how magic crackled through the air. No one spent time on physical prowess when magic would always triumph. A sharp mind was more important than a brawny body. Tycho, a foreigner only by legal circumstance, did not understand why magic and physical prowess need exclude each other. Both his body and his mind were works of art.

He was a beautiful man with dark curling hair and deep inky eyes. His body held the strength of an ox, and his mind had the wit of a dragon. The magic of Vinheim ran through his blood and recognized him, yet the people saw his stature and rejected him.

\---

“Master Tycho?” Orbeck’s eyebrows raised. “I was unaware he had any family.”

“He doesn’t.”

\---

A mistaken night with a woman did not beget responsibility for a child. There were ways to deal with accidents. The man, a rising young scholar despite his homeland, sat by the fireplace with his uncle. Though Thurston Rowell held no apparent position in society, Tycho knew the man to be level headed, respected, and informed. He had seen his superiors cow to his uncle, but he did not yet understand the source of his social power.

“How do you take care of accidents, Uncle?” He swirled a small tumbler of whiskey in his palm. “Living accidents.”

“How do you mean?” The man, a tall and lithe man with greying hair so long it reached his waist, replied. His eyes, a cold blue near grey, kept trained on the dancing flames. “What have you gotten yourself into, boy, that you need my help out of it?”

Tycho watched his uncle for a moment. The man’s thin body grew stiff as if ready to pounce. Perhaps, Tycho thought, he suspected him of following in Seathe’s experiments. He had created no abominations. “Oh. No no, Uncle. Tis not such a terrible crime as you suspect. Simply the results of an irresponsible evening.” He waved his hand. “That has lead to a living accident. Well, not quite alive yet.”

“Irresponsibility often leads to responsibility. I suspect you already know how to handle this.”

“Yes. I suppose I do. I hate to snuff out the little ember… But--”

“No.” His uncle’s eyes flashed, his gaze turned on Tycho. Cold. Unforgiving. Judgemental.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You misunderstood me. This irresponsible action has led to something you must take responsibility for.”

“I am not going to take the bastard infant from a drunken evening. It’s not even a person yet. It could die any moment just on its own. I couldn’t take care of it if it lived. I have no funds. I have no time. I have no support-- and neither does the woman.”

He withered under his uncle’s gaze. All his strength was nothing beneath his willowy uncle’s glare.

“I understand all of that, Tycho. But by doing so, you deny responsibility for your actions. No family of mine will do such a thing.”

“Then what do you suggest, Uncle?”

\---

“Master Tycho-- I never met him, of course. He was long dead by the time I came to be, but he was responsible for several improvements to modern sorcery.” Orbeck stared at his companion. He felt no need to mention Thurston. Thurston Rowell, a pillar of the Rowell family. A family that ruled the underground and much of the political scene in Vinheim for a century. A name prominent enough to find itself dominating an era in their history texts. “But I had no idea he was a part of the Rowell family.”

“Yes. Well. It’s good to know I’m the bastard of someone worth remembering. I never saw him at family affairs, so I don’t know how much a part of our family he really was… ”

\---

Tycho sat at his desk in the dragonschool staring at a small calendar on the corner of the desk. It glowed with a reminder for him, the blue light growing and dimming in intensity. Somewhere the child who’s creation he’d helped initiate was celebrating his seventh birthday. Somewhere that child would be sitting on his great uncle’s chair bouncing with excitement as his friends arrived to play and spend the night.

He watched the calendar dim and glow as he thought of the kid. What did he look like now? Did his hair curl like his father’s? Was it wavy and brown like his mother’s? Was it lax and dark like his grandfather’s? Tycho reached out and snuffed the light. He had work to do. The child, Melody, was his first and last, but Tycho would only ever be a stranger on the street to him.

\---

“You really had no one, Orbeck?”

“No. I had family, technically. But only in name. I was like you, I suppose, but I had no great uncle.”

“Undeath is another chance. Look at Cornyx-- how the uncertain flock to him. Heh, that could be us.”

“I think I will pass.”


	4. Goddess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Thurston, Uther

Uther of Thorolund was a well respected paladin. At sixteen he had taken his vows. It’d been easy for him to swear off the comfort of a woman’s companionship or the security of family. He’d had no desire for either of these things. By thirty he’d reached the holy rank of High Paladin.

He was a thin framed man with enough muscle to fill his armor. Perfectly average in height and slightly muscular, he found most people underestimated him. But Uther’s faith was great-- his faith was both his sword and his shield, for his faith strengthened his arm and sturdied his legs. He’d taken down those afflicted with the curse who had greatly outweighed him and floored the living with his skill. 

By thirty six he was leading holy warriors in mass undead hunts.

It was a warm day when he saw the flicker. The cathedral sat overlooking the eastern ocean, the Sea of White as the old texts called it. Uther leaned on the banister listening to its not so distant waves and watching a gull peck at a catch on the railing. In the corner of his eye, he caught a blue flicker. He snapped his head to see, but whatever it was had passed. A deep snarl set across his lips.  _ Vinheim. _

Thurston was not sent on an assassination. He was not sent for spy work. But the spooks of Vinheim were not allowed anywhere near the holy cathedral of Thorolund, and he wanted to see it. He wanted to know what the splendor really was. He stepped through the halls perfectly silent and unwelcome. 

It would be so easy for him to steal something. To break something. To damage the place, but he had no such intention. He paused at the statue of a human sized robed woman-- he’d seen her figure before, but he wasn’t quite sure who she was. It was old marble with few candles lit at its base. She sat, legs to the side, with her hands on her lap and her palms and face turned upwards. Her head was obscured in the flickering shadows, but her eyes were intentionally covered with a strange spindling crown. When he knelt down to look, each candle was nested in a curled snake. Much of his life was led without the imagery of the gods. Fina, Caitha, Filanore, Velka, Gwyndolin, Gwynevere-- they all bled together. 

He reached out to touch her hand, and he frowned when he felt the dust in her palm. A forgotten goddess, perhaps? He looked to the soot between his fingers and quickly rubbed them clean. His touch had left a mark on the statue, and he wondered if the soot was intentional.

Uther had followed his gut to the statue of the Dark Sun. He’d stepped lightly and without sound. When he stepped around the corner, he saw the Spook. Whatever he had expected, he hadn’t gotten it. The Spook was an oddly tall man dressed as if he had meant to attend a service. He watched as the man, a strangely pale man, touched the statue’s hand and contemplate it. Uther was not the type to hesitate, but this Spook didn’t seem quite right to him. If he was there to kill or steal, he wouldn’t be praying to the dead Dark Sun. For it was She who met out punishment to the Guilty. It was Velka who met out redemption. Well, She once did. She was no longer.

He stood there in his golden armor waiting for the spook to notice him, and when he did, the man nearly jumped out of his skin. Thurston leapt backwards and disappeared, but he couldn’t get away before the paladin shut the door behind him. There was… something that made his feet feel like lead. It was like running in a dream, or more like being unable to run in a dream.

“You can flee, and I can alert the entire cathedral that a Vinheim spook has broken into our sanctuary, or you can plea to me and me alone why I shouldn’t hurt you.”

Thurston couldn’t remember the last time he’d been caught like this, and he was terrified. He slipped by the Goddess’s statue feeling some level of connection with her. 

“I-- I suppose it’s-- Ahem.” He kept his illusion up. “Holy figures shouldn’t be hidden, but they are. But no lock or key has ever stopped me, so I simply came to see the images of our gods.” Uther watched the spook’s handprint appear on the statue’s shoulder as the man sought shelter beside her. Thurston knew exactly what he was doing. “My being here is entirely unaffiliated with any job or any nation. No sorceror does what I do willingly. No church in Vinheim holds the images of our gods. I thought I ought to face them now. Learn who they were and who they are.”

“Well,” Uther smiled and crossed his arms. He knew well that the spook couldn’t run by, not with the tranquil walk he’d cast across the room. “The woman you hide behind is the Dark Sun. Gwyndolin. She was cast out of our teachings as her power waned. The goddess I suspect you’d benefit the most from is Velka, but you won’t find her honored here.” He looked to the door then back to the statue. “You’ll have to break into the Cathedral of Carim to see her statue. Until then…” He shifted his weight. “I’m afraid you’ll need an escort. I already know you are here, and if I find you again I’ll likely have to kill you… so why don’t you walk with me instead?”

The illusion dropped, and Thurston remained by the statue’s side with his hand on her shoulder. His expression belied his horror, and his knuckles grew painfully pale in his grip. “Would it be strange if I said I would like that? I would very much like to learn more about this Fair Lady.”

“You won’t like what you learn.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t matter.”

“As you wish. I know several of her tales. Several of her miracles. It has been some time since she’s been honored. Come, I’ll show you how to honor her.”


	5. Rejection Sensitive

“Who was in power when you were alive?” Orbeck leaned back against the wall, his spine aching from hunching over the Oolacile scroll. For now he’d handed it to Melody. He eyed him, unsure if he should consider the man an understudy or a partner in this research.

“Oh, uhm…” Melody paused, his nose mere inches from the scroll as if by being closer to it he could better tune out the world. “Carim was rising to power in the religious world, Thorolund was losing influence, Irithyll had already overtaken Anor Londo… Vinheim was, of course, still the magic capital with the high council as the political face and the Arch-Mage Gunter leading the dragon school…” He looked upwards to the ceiling and began to idly chew his lip. “I believe Carim still held their living goddesses… Yhorm had already burned, Aldrich was still… in power… Or no. He’d burned. His pontiff held the reigns of his nation. And I am unsure about the other Lords… Lothric was no doubt already breeding sacrifices… I was actually quite close with a Watcher.” A warm flush crept across his neck as he thought about his old companion. A man who had helped keep him sane through undeath. “What about you?”

“I suppose that makes you my elder.” Melody wouldn’t admit it, but he loved the way Orbeck’s voice sounded like gravel. “When I was alive, Thorolund was mostly forgotten. Aldrich and Ludleth had already burned, and the Abyss Watchers were a fairy tale to frighten young children into obeying their parents. Then the flames began to fade, and...” He leaned his head back against the cold stone behind him.

“How did you die?”

“I beg your pardon?” Orbeck’s brows knitted. He gave Melody an incredulous glare.

“How did you die?” Unaware of the look, Melody glanced to meet his gaze and immediately shrivelled. “I mean, oh no. I’m sorry. I--”

“ _ I was stabbed _ .”

“Oh. Oh dear. I should have seen that coming. You look so young and han-- You look too young and healthy to have died slowly-- I mean. I’m not making this any better.”

“You’re really not.”

Melody believed, though he denied it to himself, that given the chance, Orbeck would rather not have him there to interrupt him. The mild and constant rejection, however, was weak compared to his need for a fellow sorcerer’s company. One day, he suspected, he would stop trying to befriend the man, recognize that they were socially incompatible, and find friendship in someone else. This was not yet that day.

He really did miss Lurr, even if the man had thought with his knives instead if his brains. Perhaps that’s what he liked about the Watcher-- everything had been open and up front. There was no teetering into social missteps. He knew the moment he reached the line, and Lurr had no problem pushing him back into social decency. With Orbeck he had to try and scramble his way out of his own hole.

“I… died by falling down the stairs…” He looked down, his words softened into a mere mumble, his shoulders pulled inwards as he hunched. “I was on my way to the bathroom. To shower. A new coal had been brought from the south, and I wanted to see it as soon as possible… The showers were two flights below my quarters. I woke up in the city morgue among the rest of the unclaimed dead…”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Orbeck’s glare had turned bored, though Melody did not dare meet his eyes. He did not want visual confirmation of his faux pas. It did not occur to him that he was misinterpreting the man’s body language.

“Because I asked you a personal question you didn’t want to answer. I am attempting to compensate by offering my own personal information in an attempt to connect without pushing you into discomfort.”

“You had already pushed me into discomfort.”

To Orbeck that was done and in the past. Melody’s attempt to alleviate it was useless. If that was the reason he shared his own personal story, then he shared it for the wrong reason. He was bordering disappointment.

Melody, still not looking at the other man, let out a soft “ah. So I did,” before neatly stacking the borrowed papers and scrolls back on the makeshift desk. If he could curl in on himself, he would, but instead he simply dipped down back into his work. He stayed there a moment before deciding it was too awkward. The silence was too heavy. He stood, dipped in an unsure bow, and slipped back to his own corner.

As he left, Orbeck considered saying that the man could stay or that his discomfort did not warrant an end to their conversation, but they were both adults. Surely the other man understood this. He was simply leaving to save face or to abandon an uncomfortable turn in conversation. In reality, he had begun to consider Melody something akin to a friend. He hadn’t elaborated on his own death for it had been brutal. It was something he did not wish to remember. Out of the Unkindled, who paid him any mind, and Melody’s attention was the least uncomfortable of them.

It was… comfortable to have an intellectual equal. It felt as though his work wasn’t going to waste if he had someone he could actually share it with. Even if that someone regularly managed to stick his foot in his mouth. The awkwardness of it almost felt normal. How many sorcerers had he met just as bumbling and awkward? Half of the school had never learned how to talk to other human beings. He let out a quiet laugh as he thought about it. Of course the fool would have died in the most mundane way possible. He’d probably been  _ dying  _ to share it and maybe get a laugh out of it.

For a moment, the normalcy brought a ghost of a smile.

Melody, still within ear shot, heard the laugh and frowned. The rejection, perceived or true, was quickly beginning to outweigh his desire for companionship.


	6. Smithing

A blue light flashed from Andre’s anvil. The flash came each time he hammered a heated weapon, and the light quickly woke Melody from his rest in the nook. He stood, sleepily, and climbed the stairs to watch the man at work. Typically when he watched Andre it was with a sort of admiration and lust. The blacksmith was very much his type. Large. Muscular. No nonsense… But this was…

“You’re doing it wrong.” The words left him before he could think. “You don’t beat magic into submission. You have to coax it into doing what you want it to. Make it think that it wants to do what you want it to do.”

Melody covered a yawn before moving closer to Andre and kneeling by him. “You’re more than welcome to show me how y’ mean, Melody.” The old smith leaned over towards him. “But only so long as yer not staring at me the whole time.” He winked, and the sorcerer flushed. 

“Well… for starters…” Melody moved closer, suddenly painfully aware of their proximity, and put his hands over the coal. “It’s hot, yes, but I don’t even need a catalyst for this. I can show you the spell-- you’re an intelligent man, Andre, whether or not you give yourself credit for it. But you treat the heat like water…”

Melody lifted crystal flame from the coal in his hand and poured it over the test blade. The flame rolled down it and skittered to nothing as it hit the floor. As the blade heated, it began to glow blue, and Melody reached for the gem to infuse. “So now we coax the gem, like sugar in warm water, into the blade…” The gem melted into the flames in his hands, and he used those flames over the blade. Andre watched with genuine interest as the typically nervous young man assumed the confidence of knowledge and practice. 

He chuckled as Andre began to practice the small spell that let him hold the flame. The smith had already mastered something akin to it without using soul sorcery, and Melody couldn’t be more impressed.

“If you would have me, Andre, I would very much like to smith. I used to do something like it when I was still alive…”

“Aye. An extra hand is always welcome. Might put some meat on your bones too.”

\---

It had been some time, though time was hard to tell without the movement of the sun, since Melody had last dropped by Orbeck’s corner for scrolls and conversation. He began to wonder if the other sorcerer was intentionally avoiding him or if he’d just moved on. If he was avoiding him, why? Gods he could use a diversion… 

So he took it upon himself to create one.

Melody liked his little nook. It felt almost like a slot for a bed set into a wall. It was just long enough for him to stretch across, and it was tall enough for him to sit upright comfortably in. Orbeck found him propped up and laying on his back tossing a flicker of blue flame like a ball above him. 

“I didn’t know you were a smith.” Orbeck stood, arms crossed, looking upwards towards Andre. “I heard you working. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out your specialty…” He looked back down. Melody fumbled his flame and dropped it on his chest. The fire skittered like burning alcohol before dissipating. 

“Oh. Uhm. Farrier. I tended mostly to horses. I did very little ironworking…” His hands curled over his sternum, his deep dark brown eyes wide with confusion. “What a-- Why are… I thought I brought you discomfort. Why do you seek out conversation?”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Every time we speak, you grow short in your words and seemingly irritated. I thought it was quite clear… I thought you were just… I don’t know.” He waved his hand. “Tolerating me because I didn’t realize you wanted me gone.”

Putting it into words gave Melody strength. He’d accepted the rejection, and having done so he no longer really cared to waste his time on a man he wasn’t platonically compatible with.

Orbeck blinked, baffled, his arms dropping to his sides. Then he began to laugh. Quietly and sadly. His head dipped down. “Gods… Is that so? Is that how I appear?” He looked back up to see Melody comfortably positioned with a thick eyebrow raised. “On the contrary.” He cleared his throat and straightened his back. “I find your company beneficial. Enjoyable, even.”

Melody’s eyes narrowed. There were several points in his life where people pretended to be kind to him only to torment him, but thus far Orbeck had not openly done so. He had heard nothing cruel from the others of the shrine either. 

“Is that so?” He returned. Melody lifted himself into a sitting position and drew his knees to his chest. Orbeck wasn’t terribly tall, but he still stood over Melody. He thought for a moment, brows creasing as he regarded the other sorcerer. “Well. I suppose I would be annoyed with my company if all he did was borrow and borrow and never bring anything to share.”

“I-- what?”

“Would you like to learn how to smith, Orbeck? Provided Andre tolerates both of us.”

“Yes. Yes I would.”

“Then,” Melody said as he smiled. “Then it will be my turn to be lightly irritated with you. Now then,” he shot his hand out. “Either scootch out of my way, or help me up.”

Orbeck took his hand and lifted him more swiftly than anticipated. Melody hit his head on the stone roof of his nook, let out a sharp  _ fuck,  _ and stumbled out and up the stairs, hand still in hand.


	7. For the Love of Skeletons

Animated skeletons were high on the list of things that made Melody panic. Animated skeletons rolling around in a ball looking like they were having a blast were a step above them. Jars that released homing dark sorcery upon breaking may have been the top of the list until he made the mistake of touching the ominous skull goblet atop some altar. It had sat so temptingly beside an old book. It didn’t matter what was in the book, Melody wasn’t going to turn it down. He should have. He should have ignored the damned thing. He had backed away when shadows began to pour from its eye sockets like water, but it quickly enveloped the room.

He shook, quivered, in both the warmth and the darkness of the apparent abyss. A cast light bounced across the shadows revealing what appeared to be earth and grass, but it only went so far before breaking into marbles and skittering into nothing. 

_ No way out but forward.  _

When he cast the light a second time, having moved further along the earth and grass, it hit a massive bone. When it shattered, the light danced across an impossibly large skeleton. He froze. If it were the skeletonized hand of a genuinely dead giant, then he’d be perfectly fine, but he had waded through mobs of reanimated skeletons, and he doubted he could be so lucky.

Silent and near invisible, he began to channel a mist, a pestilent mist as Orbeck had called it. Perhaps, with luck, it would destroy the skeleton to the point that it just… fell apart. Nothing in this warm abyss could possibly be friendly.

He sat in the dark for what may have been minutes but felt like hours. The mist acted like a poison, he knew this, but still he sat, faithfully casting the spell over and over until his mind grew numb, his mouth grew dry, and his body grew tired. Finally, he gave in, angry that he might be trapped with god forsaken skeletal giant. He stood, stomped over to the hand, kicked it and screamed, “Damn you bastard! Damn you to hell! Dragging me here to rot with you!”

But as he did so, black sprites surrounded by white rose around the skeleton. The creature screamed, waking, as its bones began to turn to dust and the sprites bored into it. Melody watched in abject horror as the spirit screamed in agony. The abyss began to drown with it, and it tore at Melody like a wind in a storm. He crouched, lowering down and protecting his face, but it came to an end in a moment.

He stood, shadows receding into the goblet, and quaked. The door beyond creaked open, but he had no will to press forward. Shakily he reached for the book, some patched together rotting tome. He took it, opened it, and snarled when it read of pyromancy and the darkness of man.

Frustrated, he slammed it down, but he couldn’t just abandon it. It was a source of knowledge. Begrudgingly, he took the tome under his arm, and stepped back towards the bonfire. Perhaps he would take up pyromancy one day. Or not, given where this tome came from.


	8. Logan's Scroll

Melody never wanted to see the cold of Irithyll ever again in his long life. His search had led him there after he’d found the two pyromancy tomes, but surely, he thought, a land so cold wouldn’t hold pyromancy. It would hold knowledge and sorceries. He could smell the magic in the cold air-- there was nothing holy about it. 

When he had arrived, he first crossed the bridge with a knight and his protege. The fool of a man took more hits than he needed to, but both he and his protege could restore themselves with the words of gods. He didn’t understand how faith alone could work such miracles, but… that was why he didn’t cast them, he suspected. 

They went on to fulfill their duties elsewhere, the girl happily waving goodbye, and Melody scoured the old city for knowledge. Sorceries. Pyromancy. Miracles. History. Anything. When they found him again, he tossed his little glowing ball against the wall, stood, and joined them.

He was, perhaps, at his most useful in the dungeons. He slipped between the jailer nuns, their branding irons ever close, their poisoned incense draining him, but they never saw him. They felt his knife on their throat, and then they died their second death. 

Melody shook by the time they made it through the last collection of jailers. He shook as the steel knight picked the lock of a woman’s cell, and he shook as the knight and his protege put down the stone gargoyle. 

They sat at the flame quietly. Contemplating their next move. 

“We need to find Siegward,” the knight said, his body gently burning with ember, his voice flat and graveled. “He wasn’t in Anor Londo.”

“Well Ernie…” The girl, about Melody’s age, maybe a few years younger upon death, spoke. “We could go towards the ominous fire which isn’t the… what did you call it?”

“Lordvessel.”

“We could go to the fake lordvessel, or we could poke around that gap and see if there’s a way down. What do you say? Where do you think your boyfriend is?”

“Heh.” The knight’s beard moved with his smile. “Siegward isn’t my boyfriend, but I’m sure you’d like to have him as your dad, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t complain. Beats Hawkwood.”

They waited for Melody’s hands to steady, then they crawled down the ladder. He lagged behind, watching the girl as she danced and pranced forward with her loyal knight following behind. Another stone creature pounced when they stepped off the ledge, but between the two knights’ lightning, it fell to pieces. He chuckled when the knight regularly reached out to grab the girl by her herald’s cape to stop her from charging into pitfalls. 

Eventually the hallway led them to a church left standing within the caverns surrounded by muck and sewage. They lept down, and the watery filth immediately began to soak his boots. He quietly prayed as they stepped through the muck, a small chant to keep him grounded and ignore the filth, but he could not help the girl and her knight crush the creatures with them. 

Frozen, the girl lifted him up and carried him to the next ladder. “Come on, Sir Melody~” She chuckled, likely at how dainty he was acting. “You’re across now.” In truth he reminded her of a dog with booties. Sufficiently humiliated, he rolled out of her arms, stomped his feet, and brushed the nothing off his legs. 

They climbed the ladder, and the knight peaked into the old church before stepping out, shaking his head, and muttering “No. Not today. Not. To. Day.” They began to move past towards a set of stairs when Melody heard a quiet, “Shit! Shit shit shit!” and the sound of a readying catalyst. Without a solid thought, Melody turned towards the noise with a fast cast of his own, twisting the light around them to deflect the incoming soul spear.

Without a word between them, the knight and the protege charged the aggressor, plummeting him with lightning and fire. The sorcerer’s scream echoed through Melody’s mind as he burned and fried leaving a smoking corpse on the church roof.

“He was…”

“Like us.” The girl let out a heavy breath before nudging the body with her shoe. “Some people fall to murder…”

The knight, far more detached, began to rummage through the dead man’s bags. At first Melody was horrified, but as the body fell to ash, all that was left were the tattered clothing, the broken weaponry, and a leather messenger bag. The knight flipped it open. Melody couldn’t see his face, but he could see how gingerly the man reached in to retrieve what he saw.

“Little Spook,” He said calmly. “I think you’re going to want this.”

\---

“Orbeck!” Melody ran down the halls and all but tumbled down the shrine stairs to the other sorcerer. He skittered across the wet stone, splashing through the puddles, and very nearly collided with the slab Orbeck had been using as a desk. He slammed against it, his hands scraping against the rough stone, and smiled so wide his teeth gleamed like a lion’s.

“Mmm?!” Melody looked positively dangerous in his glee, and for a moment Orbeck couldn’t find the words to respond. But his attention, his wide alert eyes and stiffened posture, were all Melody needed. “Orbeck you will not believe what we found. Orbeck!” “I’m right here! I’m listening. No need to shout…” Melody began to tear at his satchel and eventually produced a bronze capped scroll. “Orbeck… Look. Take it and  _ look.  _ You’re not going to believe this…”

“Oh. Oh my…” His hands brushed over the capping to the scroll. “This is…” His voice was barely above a whisper, the breathiness to it all the confirmation Melody needed. He had found something-- he had brought back something genuine. “This is the scroll of the prodigious Big Hat Logan.” They beamed at each other like two school children who’d discovered the greatest opportunity of their lives. “I know,” Melody whispered back, gently pushing the scroll into Orbeck’s hand. 

“You’re sure?” His eyes were wide with disbelief as he took the scroll. “This is your find--”

“It was in my hands, but this is  _ our  _ school, isn’t it?” He knelt on the other side of the makeshift desk. “I’d rather unravel it with you. Not without you.”

“If this were the  _ dragon school _ …”

“It’s our little independent study. We can fight over primary and secondary authorship later.”

“I think I love you.”

“I think you’re high on academic pursuit.”

“Perhaps that too.”


	9. In the Light of the Dark Moon

Orbeck chuckled when Melody approached him with his arms full of books held closely to his chest. “You know,” he started with a smile. “You remind me of the school girls how they held their--” Orbeck stopped. Melody’s face had shifted from his peaceable excitement to a poorly hidden snarl. “I… I don’t mean that as an insult… I--” 

“Stop. Just stop. I don’t care.” Melody was thin like a stalk of wheat, but he was tall, and Orbeck was seated. While typically in no way intimidating, his height, the way he loomed and glared as if Orbeck had insulted his family unnerved him. He bit his lip, uncertain how his comment warranted such hatred and ire, but before he could speak again, the man tossed the book on the slab in front of him, spun on his heels, and left.

Baffled, Orbeck looked over to Cornyx who no doubt saw it all. The man smiled knowingly then mouthed “give him a moment.”

\--

_ Like a school girl. _

He’d come straight back from his little jaunt in the profaned capital to share another piece of literature he’d found. A  _ school girl.  _ Here he was, fighting strange monsters, fending off murderous masked women, slinking through the depths of the earth, just to be a  _ school girl.  _

But that wasn’t what bothered him, and he knew it. He knew Orbeck respected his ability and willingness to go out there. He knew he appreciated his skills as a colleague. He  _ knew  _ that the man had truly meant nothing but light humor in the phrase he couldn’t let him finish. Perhaps he would explain himself later, but he needed to let his mind reset first. He knew he could find comfort in the solitude of his little burrow. The cold stone would blanket him, and it would smother his irritation like water on a smouldering flame.

He froze, broken from his day dream of calm isolation, when he saw a girl in his nook. Not just  _ a  _ girl. The girl from the capitol. From the cell. His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth. Fully aware of his presence and his irritation, she looked up to him from beneath her great hat. 

“I remember you.” Her eyes were as dark as his own. A deep inky brown so easily mistaken for black in the low light. “You said nothing when the knight picked my lock and invited me here. Come to say your piece then? To chase a monster from your holy place?”

“I... What?” Melody shook his head, his ire from before settling deep but receding from the forefront of his thoughts. “No. What? No I. I came here to escape irritation. This.” He waved at the nook where she now sat. “This is where I come to rest. It’s…” Hugging, he dropped next to her, grunting at his hard fall. “I’m Melody.” He turned and held out his hand crossing it over his body to reach her. “Karla,” she said taking his thin knobbed hand with her own. 

“Then…” she began cautiously. “You have no qualms sharing your space with one such as me?” He scoffed. “One such as you? What is that supposed to mean?”

“A creature of the dark…”

“Oh.” He paused and thought on it. “If you start talking about murder in your sleep, then I might find a new place to sit. But… you said you were a sorcerer?”

“A witch.”

“Yes yes, you cast sorceries, yes? Would you like to learn some soul sorceries? Straight from a Vinheim drop out.”

Melody found teaching Karla magic she already had a grasp over to be an excellent way to channel his frustration. She knew the fundamentals, but the sorcery of a soul came from a different source from her very  _ human  _ sorcery. Her sorcery scared him not because of some evil but because of the pain it clearly came from. He wanted to offer some sort of warmth and comfort, but he didn’t want to touch her. He did not like to be touched. 

“This magic is… weak,” she said as she flung a dart at the wall across from them.

“Of course it is. It is tied to the flame, and the flame grows weak. I read that in Logan’s scrolls, and that man was a pillar of soul sorcery. The way he describes channeling the ambient souls around him references how the flame consumes souls. The stronger the flame, the stronger the sorcery. Or so he theorized. He was right, I suppose. The acts his scrolls described greatly outshine the acts we can imitate, and I doubt it’s for lack of our own skills. But your dark sorcery… That comes from within. Not from without.”

Karla looked up from Melody when she heard footsteps approaching. Her hand tightened prepared to defend herself and ready to lash out, but the man who approached them had little interest in her. 

“Melody.” Orbeck nervously held his hands by his sides feigning comfort. “I wanted to apologize. I am unsure of my error, but I am certain of its gravity.”

“It was an error you would have never been able to predict.” Melody stood to face Orbeck face to face and placed his hand on Orbeck’s forearm. “And your error was no insult. It cut more deeply than you know, but I do not hold it against you. I can’t.” He found it hard to meet Orbeck’s eyes. He was nearly a foot taller than the other man, but so often before this admission had destroyed his friendships and social bonds. With a breath, he met his friend’s gaze, held it unblinking, and said firmly, “I walk in the light of the Dark Moon.”

A soft “ah” escaped the other man, who smiled, nodded, and looked downward. Melody gripped his arm a little more tightly, his face grave, and continued. “Like my great uncle before me, like our goddess before us. To the covenant he swore, and the covenant I inherited.” 

“You’re a Blade..?” He softly chuckled. “Melody Rowell of Vinheim, Blade of the Dark Moon, I will never doubt your return, and I will never speak so carelessly again.”

His grip on Orbeck’s arm softened as the man lifted his head to face him once again. “Thank you, Orbeck.” He relaxed and dropped his hand. “Thank you for not making me spell it out.”


	10. Lord of Hollows

Lady Yuria of Londor was a very intelligent woman. She was shrewd and cunning, and she had never been so foolish as to trust a stranger. Yoel, dear Yoel, had done his duty. He had found a willing Ashen One, and he had carved their humanity out of them for the world to see. He had taken the unkindled ash and turned them into a proper hollow. The ashen one, a man who’s name would only matter if he followed her lead, was eager to please. Perhaps he was driven by lust of power, or perhaps he was driven by lust of flesh. The second would be easier to manipulate, but she knew well enough to pull on both strings.

A simple test would do. Long had Londor sat in the shadow of Vinheim. The dragon school produced sorcerers and soul magics unlike anything the Londor sorcerers could reproduce. Though Vinheim now decayed with the curse and the rot, it remained a political enemy of her people, and the wayward sorcerer who now resided in the shrine became a source of knowledge and a small opportunity. His ashes would yield whatever spells he had once manufactured. 

She whispered in the hollowed man’s ear like a school girl sharing a scandalous secret. “ _ Orbeck of Vinheim is a cause for much consternation… _ ” To her it was an obvious lie. The man was nothing, but he was a skilled nothing. If this hollow was worth her time and worth her bid, he would kill Orbeck without question and return to her with his prize. If the hollow died, she would move on. There were other pilgrims with other ashen ones. This one was not irreplaceable. 

\---

The man’s name was Marcel. He had been raised in the Farron woods alongside the fortress of watchers. He had seen them march to war several times in his life, and each time he had wanted to join them. His family had pulled him back and reminded him that they had been cursed. They were hollowed undead in a terrible fate. 

When he was cursed himself, they refused him. Try as he might, he could not get through their trials. Embittered, he swore to do what none of them could. He would link the flame alone and serve a greater purpose.

He did no such thing. 

But now this woman believed in him. Yoel had believed in him. He was no more special or better suited for the task than anyone in the shrine, but he had taken the task upon him. He would be the Lord of Hollows, whatever that entailed, and he would serve the undead.

Orbeck heard the man approach and lifted his head from his scrolls. “Can I help you..” He wasn’t familiar with the man, but he’d seen him before. A hollow among unkindled stuck out like a rotten fruit in a bushel. The man favored a thick leather armor-- a strange choice around the shrine-- and a heavy hammer. Orbeck leaned back as the hollow drew his weapon and pulled it back to swing.

He wasn’t alone. Cornyx gasped when he saw Marcel draw his weapon, and Melody jumped from his seat, pushing past Karla, to help his fellow sorcerer. Orbeck was far from helpless. Even in his surprise, he ducked away from the blow, jumping backwards and reaching for his staff. 

“What’s this about?!” He snarled, confused and angry, but his attacker simply readied his hammer for another blow. Orbeck hadn’t prepared any acceptable spells for the day. The few hours past he had toyed with what he learned from Master Logan’s writing, but a soul spear was hardly worth using in such populated quarters. If he fired it and missed… There were four other people in the immediate vicinity he cared about. 

Another blow missed and crashed into his work space, tearing through a scroll he had copied. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” His voice nearly cracked as he paused briefly to register the damage that’d been done. It was enough. Safety be damned. This fool, this hollow, had done enough, and Orbeck needed to put him down before he hurt him, his work, or anyone else. A strong kick to the hollow’s gut gave him enough space to cast the soul spear, but as he raised his staff he saw the familiar figure of his friend behind his attacker.

“Melody no!”

His spell fizzled out in his panic, but his friend, the soft wood worker, grabbed the hollow across the face, pulled him into his chest, and dragged a dagger across his neck. The blood that sprayed from the wound was not red. It was not warm. It was not fluid. It was thick and viscous. Tepid. The hollow gurgled, thick molasses like fluid seeping from the wound. He grabbed at it, pawed at Melody’s hand on his jaw, before slipping down towards the ground.

Yuria did not bother to watch. She heard the silence and the failure. Marcel of Farron was not worth her effort, and he had proved it.

“Are you ok?!”

Melody dropped the man, his hand darkened with his blood, and looked frightfully to Orbeck. His friend appeared unharmed, but the blood of his attacker seeped around their feet and coated the destroyed scroll. He reached for him, then stopped. His hands were bloodied. It wouldn’t do to get that on Orbeck. His hands were bloodied. Covered in the dark blood of a hollowed man. A man he had heard speaking not long ago. A man hollow only in appearance. A man. A person. A human being.

Orbeck knew that look. He knew what it meant when Melody looked down to his blood covered hands. What it meant when he dropped the knife. He darted forward, closing the gap between them and pulling his friend into a tight embrace. “I am fine, thanks to you.” He shifted and pulled his companion away from the corpse so that they would not stand over a dead body as they came down from the fight.

Together they stared at the body, unsure what to do with it. “He tried to kill you…” Melody entwined his hand with Orbeck’s. “What in the gods’ names… Did you know him?”

“...No.” 

The two of them leaned against the stone wall contemplating the attack. They were silent. In spite of all their adventures and risk, this death had them in shock. It was Cornyx who finally spoke up, first clearing his throat and then letting out his warbling voice. “The bones of the undead make fine kindling. Cremation is the proper way to handle the dead. I believe since it was you two boys who put him down… it’s up to you to put him to the flame as well.”

By the time they had lifted the body to the central flame, Yuria of Londor was gone. She would find her lord of hollows in another candidate. 


	11. The Key to the Archives

Lurr had been a kind man. The actions of the Watchers wore on him, but he sought kindness wherever he could. Melody could not march with the Watchers, but he always waited for him in the Farron woods when they had to part. He remembered Lurr’s calloused hands, his gentle eyes and soft smile. He remembered how warm he was and how he liked to lean against him on chilly nights. He would rest with his head on Lurr’s shoulders just above his dark sign, and he would doze. He remembered the clear waters of the swamp. He remembered seeing the sky in those waters. How the trees and the stars were reflected perfectly on the pristine surface. 

He couldn’t remember how Lurr died. He couldn’t remember when he died. It was like a portion of his memory had been severed and replaced with a window that only showed great sadness. Remembering Lurr alive was a warm memory. Trying to remember his death turned his stomach and burned his eyes with sorrow. He couldn’t really remember much undeath after Lurr either. 

It was different leaning on Karla’s shoulder the few times she allowed him to and the few times he asked.

Melody sat across from him as Orbeck scribbled something down on a scrap piece of parchment. His handwriting was fluid and clear. The way he could write without looking at the page was almost mesmerising. He had a practiced hand, and by all his observations Melody couldn’t understand why Orbeck had never been admitted to the school proper.

“The spell from the golden scroll, the hidden body spell? It worked marvelously.” Melody didn’t know how well it would hold up in a field run, but he was all but invisible. He turned the ring Orbeck had loaned him over in his hand, his thumb running over the brass dragon crest. His footsteps had been so perfectly muted that even Melody himself was unsure that he was stepping properly. But eventually he had grown comfortable with the silence.

He held the ring out for Orbeck to take. The man looked first to the ring in Melody’s hand and then to his face. He frowned deeply as he met Melody’s oddly intense gaze. 

“I am sorry, Melody. For what I have done to you.” He reached up slowly to take the ring from him. The man cocked his head but his gaze remained as intense and unblinking as it was before. There was a moment when Orbeck took the ring back that their hands touched, and in that moment both of them were hyper aware of how careful the other was not to touch  _ too much.  _ Though both wore gloves, their hands recoiled as if repulsed by the thought. “I have given you the tools to be an assassin and a killer. In doing so, you have taken lives. You can never return from that. Even if you never take another life...” Orbeck turned the ring in his hand. It wasn’t a particularly heavy ring, but it carried great weight to it. He spoke quietly, murmuring. “Can you forgive me?”

Melody reached out his gloved hand to cover Orbeck’s. He curled Orbeck’s fingers over the ring before simply resting his hand atop his companion’s. “If I could have avoided all of this, I would have. I would have died and remained dead. I would be a simple ferrier or carpenter, and I never would have used a blade on anything living or undead. You are not responsible for my actions, Orbeck. And the lives I have ended with that ring or with the spells I learned with you were not the first lives I had ever taken. We have all been undead before.”

There was a heavy moment where Orbeck looked up to meet Melody’s sad gaze. The man’s look had softened from before, and on impulse Orbeck turned their hands over so that he could drop the ring back into Melody’s. “Then keep this. May it keep you silent and unfound. May you find protection in it.” Melody’s fingers curled around Orbeck’s hand, the ring between them, and he smiled ever so slightly. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say something like their school was a partnership, and that the two of them had to be equals in all things. Or perhaps that it would make more sense for Orbeck to retain the ring when they left so that he, being far more skilled, could keep a better eye out. Instead he settled on something else. 

“I will bring you every scroll I find.”

“Staying alive would be enough.”

It occurred to Orbeck that he had offered the ring without expecting compensation. The intention had missed his fellow sorcerer entirely, but he smiled at the realization. How long ago had that girl asked him about the matters of love and courtship? And what was the answer he had given? That he would share what he had without expectation. He looked around them, his hand still over Melody’s, and smiled. “I think it’s time we moved on. There are the grand archives in Lothric, and if someone has paved the way, we merely need to step into the flames.” 

\----

The grand archives stood before them as they crossed over the bridge from the lower castle of Lothric. Something grave had happened between Melody retrieving the scroll and their arrival to the archives as the sky burned despite the sun hanging high above them, or at least what was left of the sun. Neither man wanted to look at the great gaping hole that seemed to draw the fire from the world and consume it. It was the end in a way neither of them could have ever seen coming. 

It was easier as they reached the massive ornate doors of the archives as the surrounding buildings of the castle town towered around them and blocked the view of the horizon. They had to look directly upwards to see the red patch of sky. They chose not to.

“Shit!” Melody jumped back at Orbeck’s exclamation. There was a body of a man, an actual body made of flesh, laying in front of the great doors. A black arrow pierced through his chest, but what was so peculiar was the fact that he hadn’t simply turned to ash. There was blood pooled around the corpse, and for a moment Melody wondered if the man had been  _ alive.  _ Not just undead but genuinely  _ alive….  _ Orbeck wasted no time as he scanned for the archer before trotting to the corpse. He pulled off a glove before pressing it to the skin of the body then trying to move an arm. The limb was stiff but not entirely so.

“He’s very very dead.” Melody snorted at the short proclamation. “So I suspect whoever killed him isn’t waiting around. Or…” Orbeck glanced at the doors. “Try getting us in. They might be protecting the archives. See if it’s locked. If it is…” Orbeck winked. “We’ll just have to turn around.”

Whatever his intention behind his message was, Melody missed it entirely. He stared dumbfounded and frustrated at the thought of just leaving after all of this, but still he went to the doors and tugged then pushed on them. They didn’t give. “Well that’s  _ too bad, _ ” Orbeck said with an exaggerated shrug. “Come on. We don’t have time to waste.” He stood leaving the body with something in his hand and turned to walk away. When Melody had caught up to him, Orbeck grabbed him and pulled him into a more secluded nook. 

“Orbeck! What are you--” they were pressed uncomfortably close.

“Hidden body. We’re breaking in. The dead man had a key ring, and I am not going to give up like this. Not now. Not so close. I’ve never had a chance like this in my life, and I’m not about to let a sniper or a locked door keep me out of it.” The last thing Melody would see of his friend for some time was a very Vinheim-like smile. The smile of a starved dog seeing a wounded rabbit. 

And then he was mist. 

Melody followed the Orbeck sized distortion that wavered in the air. He had quickly cast the same spell but doubted he could maintain it as well as his well versed companion. Perhaps that was why Orbeck had given him the ring to keep him silent, so that he could cast and recast without drawing attention to himself. He smiled at both his assumed incompetence and Orbeck’s thought to make them a little more equal. The door opened with a hard creak just wide enough for the two of them to slip in. Before them… gods almighty before them…

Neither man had ever seen so many books in one place. The archives towered above them with open floors so that they could see the underside of the arched roof itself. Melody grew dizzy staring upwards. A single bookcase was thrice his height, and he was already obnoxiously tall. From where he stood in the entrance, he could count at least three proper levels disregarding potential half levels. His focus wavered, but his concealing spell kept him hidden.

Something-- Orbeck he quickly realized-- grabbed his wrist and drug him out of the entrance way and towards a series of shelves. His companion hissed under his breath before pulling Melody quickly past the rows of books. “ _ There’s a sage _ ,” he whispered. “ _ A crystal sage! Here! I… _ ” Melody grabbed Orbeck’s wrist to slow him. “ _ Melody-- _ ” Though he couldn’t quite see him, he knew Orbeck was glaring at him. “ _ Do you remember the mist? Do you still have it attuned to you? _ ”

“Yes. Of course.” He didn’t have to whisper like Orbeck. The slumbering ring muted him all the same. Orbeck’s falling shoulders were visible through the distortion, and his sigh of relief audible. “ _ Good. You’ll need it.”  _ Orbeck slipped out of Melody’s grip before disappearing. Frustrated by his companion’s actions, he looked around the edge of the bookshelves for his wavering image. Instead all he could see was the sage, a strange creature with a massive hat and wide robes, begin to waver and wobble as if ill. It was a painless death, supposedly, but Melody wondered if it was even more cruel to kill someone in a way that they didn’t know they were dying.

Melody watched as the sage collapsed into ash. He watched as Orbeck’s concealment faded and as Orbeck bent down to brush away the ash. When he turned towards Melody, he had a hungry grin and a capped scroll. Orbeck trotted back to Melody with muted footsteps and pressed the scroll into the man’s chest. “ _ Hold this, _ ” he whispered. “ _ I will ensure that you do not need to draw a blade today.”  _ Melody watched him with a confused smile but made no move to stop him from what he did next.

Orbeck was simply naturally light on his feet. He scaled a bookshelf to survey the area around them before hopping down the other side. There was the quick sound of a flash sword drawn and expired before Melody could navigate around the shelves, and by the time he found the pile of dust that was once an undead, Orbeck had moved on. And so he followed the sound of Orbeck’s sorcery. He was both awed and a bit fearful of what his clandestine companion was capable of, but it didn’t change his opinion of the man. Far from it. It only reinforced his belief that Orbeck had deserved better than what he had been given. He smiled as in that moment he realized he was quite literally chasing after Orbeck’s coat tails. 

Melody was very nearly entranced. Orbeck was swift and practiced as he took down the few naked hollows that meandered about the first floor. He didn’t waste magic on them. They shuffled in their undeath completely unaware of the silent men before Orbeck put them to rest. Melody shuddered at their plight-- he never wanted to be a mindless hollow again. Or… he paused in thought. He didn’t know where he had come up with that. He had no memory of anything like hollowing. He had died human. He just couldn’t remember how.

In his hesitation and lost thoughts, Orbeck slipped out of Melody’s view. He quickly darted around the corner of a bookcase to catch up with his companion and very nearly ran into his back. Orbeck stood befuddled at the sight before him. Three hollows, each about Melody’s height, stood covered in hardened dripped wax. They had small wicks on the tops of their heads that burned with weak and dying flame. The hollows were not unlike candles. One turned from the others, and in doing so the two men could see that the hollow carried a lit candle. They flicked their candle at a scurrying bug on the ground and covered it with the wax. The creature slowed then stopped. Orbeck raised his hand, a sign for Melody to wait, then disappeared.

Melody watched as the first hollow fell. A knife wound appeared in their chest, then they collapsed to the ground as ash. The other two didn’t seem to notice-- they were focused on what seemed like a large bathing pool that had over flowed with the same sort of wax they were covered in. His stomach churned at the thought of it-- wax like that was made from animal fats. Having so much of it just uselessly pooled about sat deeply wrong with him. And they were putting it on their  _ heads  _ no less.

When the third wax covered hollow fell, Melody jogged to catch up with Orbeck. The man wasn’t even out of breath. He was relaxed, calm, and completely unphased. Regardless of the death, Melody would have thought the weirdness of their situation would have been off-putting, and yet his companion barely contained a smile. There was the ghost of joy pulling at Orbeck’s lips. His eyes sparkled as he surveyed the shelves around him. “I want to clear this place out. I don’t want to be interrupted by some mindless undead. Then I want to look for a directory or something.” His voice remained the same mute tone he so carefully cultivated, but the way he words came, wispy and awestruck, belied his excitement. 

“After you,” Melody said with a slight bow and an extended arm. He chuckled as Orbeck slipped past the wax bath and into a darkened room. They’d need to brighten it later, Melody thought. There was no way they’d be able to read in the dark like that. Melody followed knowing well that the dark would conceal them, but shortly after he’d stepped into the room he felt a cold hand press right between his shoulders. It seemed to ignore his clothing as it dug its fingers into his skin. He let out a sharp cry at what felt like frozen knives dig where the fingers should be. He saw Orbeck fall to his knees as four or five pale thin arms stretched from the bookshelves and grab him. One by the throat, another by the arm, two by his back and chest, and a forth over his face. 

His own legs felt weak as the cold seemed to sap the fire from within him. Melody fought the urge to run and thrash and instead grabbed Orbeck by the collar and tore him away from the darkened room. It seemed the hands could not hold them, as Melody felt no resistance beyond Orbeck’s weight and his own fatigue. They had barely stepped into the room, and they barely had to leave it to escape the creeping chill. Once safe, Melody fell to his knees, and Orbeck kicked against the ground to push away from the dark and into his friend’s embrace. 

Though Melody was shivering, Orbeck was cold in his arms. He fumbled for his estus flask and pressed the warm bottle into Orbeck’s hands. He shivered so fiercely that after a moment Melody placed his own trembling hands over Orbeck’s to help him steady the flask. It didn’t take long for the Flame to do its work, and as Orbeck’s hands steadied, his body warmed. He looked up to Melody with an expression the man didn’t recognize. There was fear, but it was softer. Relief, certainly. Melody took the flask back and put it in his pocket. He wasn’t so cold as to be on the brink of death. Whatever had happened, he could recover naturally.

But Orbeck was warm in his arms now, and he was still chilled. So long as his companion did not move to leave his embrace, he wouldn’t chase him off. Not until he was warm enough to stop shivering. Orbeck stared off, and Melody followed his gaze to the bath of hot wax. His nose crinkled at the thought of using  _ that  _ to warm up. Was that what those hollows had been doing this whole time? He would rather not have to dunk himself in wax after mad dashing through cold hands.

“Melody. This archive is secured through a curse.”  _ Oh no.  _ Melody’s eyes crinkled as he predicted Orbeck’s idea. “I think I know how we can get through.” He looked down to Orbeck, pleading for that not to be the case, but his friend and companion stood and walked over to the wax bath. “No locked door, no sniper, no curse will keep me from this.” He smirked as he turned back. Regret, resignation, and despair were all plain on Melody’s face as Orbeck bent down to dip his beautiful head into the wax. He had kept his clothes and body so clean, and none of that would ever fully come out. Orbeck snorted and blew wax out of his nose and scraped it from his eyes. 

Melody took off his shirt before following so at least that could later be saved. Gods help him and his long hair.


	12. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Largely dialog heavy after the previous progress heavy chapter.

The wax stank. It smelled horrible. Worst of all it pulled on Melody’s skin long after it had cooled and begun to crack. He felt it nipping at his body, tugging on his hair. Orbeck seemed largely ambivalent about his own predicament as he was far too absorbed in the books around them. It was true that the hands no longer reached for them or stole their fire, but Melody found himself plucking off bits of the offending wax. At least his clothes hadn’t been ruined, nor had Orbeck said anything when he’d seen him remove his shirt.

When Melody had removed his shirt, the first thing Orbeck noticed were his ribs. There was slight muscle, but there really wasn’t much meat to his lanky companion. He didn’t know if the body could change after death. If it could become more muscular or loose weight, but he worried what sort of a life his farrier friend had once lived. He was far more shocked by how underweight his companion was than by the thick pale scars that contoured his wiry pecs. For a moment he feared that Melody had been engaged in some terrible accident or fight, but no. His friend walked in the light of the Dark Moon, and those scars were earned on a battlefield entirely unknown to him.

Orbeck buried himself in the books around him. The wax might have made Melody uncomfortable, but for the first time in both his life and undeath, Orbeck was free to roam the library. It was  _ quiet.  _ The only sounds about him were those of Melody reading and the draft brushing fabric and papers gently about. He glanced up at his companion. The man was idly picking at the wax stuck to his jaw. It tangled in his facial hair and wasn’t about to let go so easily. Orbeck couldn’t help but smile at how his companion seemed to try to preen without even being aware of it.

Had he, perhaps, brought Melody into a world he never should have traveled to? Shouldn’t he have been the one to wander Irithyl, to delve into the dungeons and slip through the vague horrors of death and murder instead of his mild friend? The man had been a black smith-- no, a farrier. The man had made horse shoes for a living. Blade of the Dark Moon or not, Orbeck understood the weight of a kill all too well, and he had put that burden upon his friend. He stared down at the tome before him. Had he done it out of spite? Had he been so passive about Melody leaving to explore so that he would have to bloody his hands too? Was he that desperate to have someone understand even a sliver of his circumstance?

And what did his friend think of him for it? Melody had seen him in action now. He’d seen him quickly take the lives of every hollow between them and the rest of the archives. He’d cleared out the entire building. They were largely mercy killings, yes, but they were killings nonetheless. He ran the edge of the page between his thumb and forefinger before looking up at his companion. Melody had been looking at him, his brows knitted and lips turned in a slight frown, but when Orbeck caught his gaze, Melody immediately shrunk. The man curled in on himself and bent his head over the scroll before him like a student caught daydreaming during study. 

Melody feared Orbeck, but not for what he was capable of. He feared his judgement. His disapproval. His rejection. He had stayed clear of Orbeck’s work, and he had made sure to support him from behind, but the powerful glare and deep irritation the man radiated reinforced Melody’s concern that he simply wasn’t enough. His great uncle, Thurston, had been a blade of the Dark Moon. The man had been active in the covenant. He had carried out the Dark Moon’s will and meted out justice, and when he died Melody had inherited his covenant, but he had never been called upon. Neither the Dark Moon nor her existing blades had ever sought his help. He was just some fool who made horseshoes to pay for an education he’d never complete.

Somehow the creeping cold of his thoughts brought a stronger chill than that of the hands. His slight frown grew heavier with his dour mood, and he knew that his expression would not go unnoticed. In his youth, his uncle had chided him for wearing his heart on his sleeve, and perhaps his obvious emotions were in part to blame for his failure at the dragon school, but he had always been proud of it. He never wanted to wear an emotionless mask like the scholars who navigated the political scene. Melody would be true to himself, and he would never force himself to pretend to be anything other than whatever he happened to be.

“I will not ask for your forgiveness.” Orbeck’s words came suddenly like a breeze through autumn leaves scattering the dry foliage and loose dirt. “But I am sorry.” Melody looked up, his brows knitting and leaving cracks in the wax on his face, while Orbeck remained looking down at his book. 

“For what?” He couldn’t imagine what Orbeck had done that warranted his apparent guilt. Melody wracked his mind as he tried to remember their relationship from the beginning. This couldn’t have been about Orbeck moving into his vacant spot at the shrine, and they’d had no social conflict that hadn’t been resolved. Orbeck had largely been a friend to him-- he’d allowed him to study alongside him even when they were stiff acquaintances. The man had given him tools to protect himself with and the means to go unnoticed.

“I enabled you to make the same mistakes I did.” Orbeck closed the heavy book before him and held Melody’s gaze. His eyes had always seemed pale but reminded Melody of home. Despite being a cold blue, there had been a sort of gruff warmth, but now that warmth was a burning iron. In his intense guilt, Orbeck needed to make sure that Melody understood his crime, and rather than shying away, Melody stared him back down. His deep dark brown eyes were like still waters in an old forest. “I gave you the tools to kill without consequence. I did not offer an alternative when you left to search for scrolls, and when you came back, it looked as though a part of you had died. Even through your excitement.” Orbeck’s hand curled into a fist where it rested by the tome. His breathing was slow and regulated, calculated to better hide his stress.

Yet Melody held his gaze and spoke in a level tone. “I had killed before the shrine, Orbeck. I may have lived a clean life, but no undead can survive unsullied. I partnered with a Watcher. He was my friend and guilt ridden companion. I may be a fool, and I might be the kind of man who dies by tripping over his own feet, but you are not responsible for my actions. It does not matter how you have enabled me, my deeds are my own.” He paused watching Orbeck’s stoney expression. Melody had never been able to read him, and this was no different. “Of course killing drains a sane man. It’s easy to do after the first, but easy to do does not mean it weighs on you less. But you enabled me to make what I had to do quick and clean. You enabled me to slip past monsters and hollows I would have otherwise had to fight. You enabled me to give easy deaths to those who would have died to lightning and fire.”

After a moment, Melody reached out and placed a hand over Orbeck’s fist. His fellow sorcerer briefly looked down at their hands before looking back to Melody. “Orbeck,” he said softly. “You are my friend, and I have only benefited from knowing you. If you’re going to try and push me away after I dunked my head in wax just to accompany you throughout this library instead of staying on the first floor… You’ll have to do more than try to wield guilt.” With a small smile, Melody leaned forward as though sharing a secret. “You mustn’t forget that I was raised by a man who revered both Velka and Gwyndolin. I  _ know  _ my way around guilt. I can see right through it.”

A scoff. Orbeck let out a short laugh before breaking eye contact and looking away, but he kept his hand beneath Melody’s. He was well aware of how little the man appreciated touch, and so he understood the weight of the small gesture. “The moment you start demanding souls for pardons is the moment I say good-bye.” A quick deflection, but one he needed. The immense and odd wave of relief that had come with Melody’s admission had taken the fight out of him. “Then in that case,” Melody began with his typical lilt, “You’ll never be rid of me. I promise this to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have loose plans for at least two more chapters before I wrap this fic up. It means the world to me to receive comments, and I am easily praise driven, so if you have thoughts on potential chapters, leave me a note.


	13. Orbeck's Coat

Melody frowned at how the wax was well and sealed into Orbeck’s coat. He wanted to reach out and pick some of it away, but he didn’t. “Why didn’t you pull off your coat before dunking in the wax? It’s going to show like dandruff on that when you try to peel it away.” He rested his chin on his fist.

“Because it’s not important anymore. Thanks to you, it’s not who I am anymore.” Orbeck kept his eyes on the book before him, but a small smile betrayed his thoughts. “I’m not an assassin anymore. I’m a scholar. I can wear blue, if I so choose.”

“What does the color of your coat have to do with that? My uncle often wore black. His entire wardrobe was almost entirely black… I should think I would have known if he--”

Orbeck scoffed, it was his way of laughing, but Melody hadn’t quite picked up on that. “Your uncle revered both Velka and the Dark Moon.” He looked Melody in the eye with a slight smirk. “He wore exclusively black, and belonged to one of the largest crime families in Vinheim history. You are such a gentle soul…” His voice was soft and almost patronizing as he reached out to pat Melody’s arm. “How could you have gone your entire life without realizing that..?”

\----

There were only so many ways one could be admitted to the Vinheim Dragon School. The first and most typical was family status. Anyone with a family member who had graduated from the school was was effectively guaranteed admission. The second was bribery. The third was the rare scholarship-- a new sorcerer would have done something dramatic to prove their worth, and they would then be allowed to attend classes until a committee officially granted them tuition. The fourth method was the one sought out by those most desperate without the funds, family, or prodigal skills needed to achieve admission. The Vinheim underworld and the rest of Vinheim’s politics were one in the same. Old families made their mark in history, held the reigns of the supposed government, and ran the nation through subterfuge, bribery, murder, and charisma.

Of course no one who belonged to those families needed to struggle for their right to enroll at the dragon school, but they still needed desperate and talented young sorcerers to carry out their dirty work. Orbeck knew how to cast a spell. He knew how to channel souls through a catalyst, but he was self taught, and very little was more dangerous than being self taught. He had dreamed of becoming a proper sorcerer-- one without a family name behind him like Big Hat Logan (though Logan was claimed by various families, none could solidify the legitimacy of their claim). But he had no money. He had no wildly impressive skills, and he had no family name to give him any weight. 

Most of his family was either dead or so downtrodden they didn’t care anymore. It was barely enough to make it to the next day much less dream lofty and absurd things like the dramatic education of the Dragon School. But Orbeck was made of hopes and dreams, and he would do what it took to reach the Dragon School. He had enough blood on his hands already from just trying to survive; he might as well get paid for it, and if he was good enough, he’d be admitted.

Or so he had been told. 

His friend stopped him by the door of a seedy pub. The sun had long since set, but blue floating lanterns lit the streets. Orbeck had been to the better kept parts of Vinheim where the true sorcerers walked and where the dragon school hovered like a great spectre. The streets were clean, the buildings carved from pale stone, and magic crackled through the air like static. In the poorer parts of Vinheim, where Orbeck lived, the roads were mud in the rain, the wooden buildings remained in various states of disrepair, and filthy children ran through the streets with no one to watch them. 

“Now listen to me, Orbeck,” the friend pressed his hand against Orbeck’s chest to pause him and looked him dead into the eyes. “There’s no going back from this. Once you walk in there--”

“I know. But it’s the only chance I will ever have.” He pulled his friend’s hand away. “And I am not going to discard it so easily.” He could no longer remember his friend’s name nor how he looked. His voice had faded so far from his memory that Orbeck could only recall his words in his own voice. The same voice he heard when he read a book. Such was the curse of undeath.

“Right, but don’t look them in the face. Your contact. Unless they tell you to-- you’re getting involved with people who kill for a living. It means nothing to them anymore--” Orbeck squeezed his friend’s wrist before smiling. “It’ll be ok ------. I made my peace with dying a long time ago, but I have no intention to die here and now.” He stepped around his friend, their eyes lingering briefly before he pushed open the door and stepped into the pub.

It smelled of cheap beer and sweaty bodies. Orbeck didn’t intend to start drinking as he mingled with the workers. Most of them were there to drown their misery and ruin their savings. Whatever wages they had were wasted here. He was still young enough to be hopeful, and that meant he was hopeful enough to save his small earnings. So he sat at a table without food or drink.

The night wore on as he sat alone. He watched lazily as more people became drunk and started singing or fighting. Many of the patrons were likely unable to read, and that alone set Orbeck apart from them. But though he was already far more educated than the rabble around him, he fit in perfectly. These were his people, or they were the people he had been born into. They had no way up in their life, and so they could only sink to drunkenness and despair. By the legacy of the Pale Drake… He would claw his way out of this.

When the bar grew to its rowdiest, when it was the most busy, a man took a seat next to him. He was a lean man with a seductive smirk and clean face. “You look like the kind of fellow my Lady would like to meet,” the man said as he reached over to brush a bit of dirt from Orbeck’s coat. “How would you like to come with me? I can change your life…” His eyes were dark and sparkling like that of a cat eyeing a mouse, but to anyone who might have seen them they passed off as one man simply expressing interest in another.

Orbeck would uphold the charade as long as it was necessary. He’d always been quick to catch on, and he recognized this man for his contact. This was his ticket to the Dragon School. “With a face like that,” he tried to smile casually, but his lips twitched. “I couldn’t possibly refuse.” The man stood then took Orbeck’s hand and all but tore him from his seat. He placed his hand on Orbeck’s lower back and guided him to the backroom.

The less he knew, the less he saw, the safer he would be. So he kept his eyes down to the floor. He stood straight, but he would not look at those who would pass him on to his contracted works. Only a fool would let himself know the face of those who paid him. No one would keep an assassin who could identify them.

The door locked behind him with a heavy thunk, and though he kept his gaze down, he felt those around him watching him. Their silence hung heavy like damp air until a woman spoke.

“Teach him to kneel.”

Her voice was a harsh whisper. Orbeck began to shift his weight so that he could drop on one knee, but someone kicked his knee out from under him. He collapsed, catching himself and saving his chin, but even so he kept his silence. Before his legs could be beaten into place, he shifted his posture into a proper kneel. When he tried to move his hands from the ground, they were swatted back with a heavy staff.

“A good boy, eager to please, eager to learn.” He heard heavy footsteps move around him. “Not too bulky from manual labor-- tell me. Are you literate?”

“I am. Entirely so.”

The foot steps stopped behind him, and he heard the shuffle of fabric. “How far are you willing to go to achieve entry to the Dragon School?”

“I would  _ kill  _ for it. I would cheat, lie, and steal for it.” He had already been resolved to do so. Just getting this meeting had taken networking, favors, and death. “And I have already done so, and I will continue to do so if it leads me where I want to go…” He felt a little dizzy, a little giddy. This was the beginning. He simply needed to prove himself.

And that’s when the woman dropped the fabric on the ground before him. He stared at the black folds in confusion. They were already bloody and beaten. What-- was this another test? “You will wear this. Should you pass, you will only wear what is given to you, and it will always be black. Those in blue do not take lives. Once you are admitted to the Dragon School, you will remain in black.”

“A uniform… but that would make every assassin out there a target. I would stand out like a broken finger--”

“If you want to survive, then you simply won’t let yourself be seen. You will learn, or you will die. My employer has no time for the weak willed and idiotic. They won’t endorse an idiot or a dead man for scholarship.” When she finished speaking, he heard her heavy footsteps leave him. The man who’d brought him in, who’s face he’d already seen, coughed.

“Come on then. Put it on. You still have a test to take you know.” The man waited for Orbeck to stand and put the bloodstained coat on over his clothing. It had holes in it. People had died wearing this coat. He would survive in it. “You look terrible in it. Like you spent the week drinking and someone pulled you out of the gutter.” Orbeck’s lips twitched in a snarl, but he did nothing. “Now let’s get this over with. I want to go home tonight. Don’t fuck this up. I don’t want to have to clean up after an idiot attempt to stab someone, and it’s really simple. No magic for this-- we want to see how you perform when just dropped in there, alright?” He slapped Orbeck’s shoulder. He smiled at Orbeck’s determined glare before opening the door to the bar. 

“Now listen here. You will never be told anything about your target that’s not necessary for their… removal. All you need to do is kill the blond man over there and get out of here without being caught or otherwise implicated.” With another slap to his back, the man pushed Orbeck into the noisy bar before disappearing. He surveyed the room about him-- it was still busy, noisy, and raucous. It wouldn’t be hard to start a fight as a distraction, but he needed to start it in such a way that it wouldn’t come back to him. An idea dawned on him.

He caught one of the barmaid’s arms, placed a few coins on her tray, and whispered, “I would like to buy a drink for that particularly fierce looking man on behalf of my friend.” The woman raised an eyebrow. A middleman in the affairs of love was relatively common, but it was always so much fun to be caught up in the mundane drama of other people’s lives. “Tell him, for my friend, that he smells like piss and to use the drink to clean some of the filth off.” The woman snorted then skipped back to the bar. He then caught another barmaid and told the same story for a different man. Then he slipped back to watch.

The first man threw the tray the barmaid held, but she was fast on her feet and out of his way. The second man was far calmer, but he glared in the direction of the first man Orbeck had antagonized. He watched as they went at each other, drunken rage and violent fists. His target, the blond man, quickly made his way into the fight. Knowing his time was short before the owner of the bar and other patrons would throw them out, Orbeck slipped in like a participant.

He slipped the knife out of his boot. It was a plain thing. It didn’t even have a proper handle. It was sharp where it needed to be, but parts of it had long since rusted. More people joined the fray. Noses broke and blood ran. When he shoved his knife into the man’s chest, the blood that ran and the cry he made sounded like any other. Aware that the blood on his hand would give him away, Orbeck cracked someone’s jaw before someone else broke his nose. His own bloody nose would be the perfect cover for his hand.

When he stumbled out of there under the guise of just wanting to get away from a bar fight, someone screamed. He stumbled away like any other drunk unaware of the death, but once far enough he ducked away and began to desperately wash his hand and stay the blood from his nose.

Heavy footsteps followed him into his small apartment. The clean faced man from before leaned in the doorway and smiled. “It gets easier with practice and sorcery.” He bent over Orbeck, took his face in his hands, and popped his nose back into place. “There. Now this belongs to you. And I think you ought to have a decent shirt. Consider this a gift.” He held out a tarnished silver ring engraved with a curled dragon and a dark embroidered coat. “I will see you moon rise next week at the fountain. Our patron has eyes there, so do your best to stay hidden but know that you won’t be targeted quite yet.”

He had taken his first true step.


	14. Thurston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of Melody's childhood.

There hung a heavy and almost tangible silence in the archives. It made sense that Thurston had been some sort of spy. Melody understood that he’d done some underhanded work in his life, but he didn’t want to accept that Thurston was a murderer. He stared down at the book in his hands and his own black gloves. If it had been Tycho, he’d have believed it readily. He wanted to believe it had been Tycho instead. The man who had raised him had been the kindest, warmest, most loving man he’d ever known. 

Thurston was the sort of man to tuck him in as a child, to comfort him when he had nightmares, to -- Orbeck placed a hand on Melody’s wrist. “It doesn’t change who he was.” He turned his hand over so he could take Orbeck’s hand in his own. 

“I just… I miss him. He’s the only thing I can remember clearly. He raised me.”

\----

At ten years old, Melody was a girl. She was comfortable as a girl, she wanted to be a girl, and the most powerful person she knew was a woman. Her great grandmother Lesot was the leader of the family. Even her uncle bowed his head to her suggestions, and her uncle had the final say in  _ everything.  _ Or so she had assumed. They lived in a townhome on Gran’s estate so that her papa (Thurston) could go to work with ease and she could follow him. 

One cloudy morning, she hopped out of bed at her papa’s rhythmic knocking.  _ Pop pop pop-pop-pop.  _ She scrambled, still in her pajamas, to open the door. “Papa! It’s too early!” She pointed back to her room and at how dark it still was. She didn’t need to explain that her leg pains had kept her up. Thurston towered over her, his brows winged and arched, and peaked over her. He reminded her of a bird with his arms held behind him and bent down. She couldn’t recognize a broken nose that hadn’t been set, so she assumed it was just another Old Person Thing, and her Papa was very old. Unspeakably old…  _ in his seventies…  _

“Hmmm… No. I don’t think so, dear child of mine.” He peaked back down at her with a gentle smile. His grey facial hair lined his jaw and framed his face, but it only served to make him look older. “I think it’s just a gloomy day. The sun doesn’t want to get out of bed, so it took its blankets with it. But we are people. We don’t have that leisure. So hop to it.” He snapped and grinned. “And I’ll see you dressed for breakfast. It won’t do to have my precious little Melody catching a cold or sleeping in!”

“But Papa!” She pouted as he flicked her nose playfully. “You only get up because you’re old! You go to bed too early!” He grinned at her protest before turning on his heel and heading down the hall.

Melody huffed as he left. She was a part of a very rich family, and though technically there weren’t nobility in Vinheim, she had the same privileges that would have been afforded to one. As soon as Thurston left, a maid stepped in to help her dress. “Now Miss Melody,” the lady began tying up the back of Melody’s dress. “Try to stay clean today. There’s a dinner party for the soon to be master Tycho. He was once your uncle’s favored nephew, but they’ve grown distant. So try to stay out of the way.”

“Dinner party?! Margret, are Uther and his family going to be here too?” She twisted to look back at the maid, but was held in place with a firm hand on her shoulder. 

“No. Sir Matthias and Sir Uther are currently participating in the undead hunts, Sir Owen is wrapped up in politics, and Lady Laura is currently unavailable.” Margret patted her back to let her know she was done securing her dress. “I know how you look forward to their visits, but this is a family affair with Master Tycho and Master Lesot.” She bit her lip and smiled at the young girl. “You wouldn’t want to see your grandmother have to deal with both sides, would you?” The girl pouted again before charging out the door.

Margret tailed after Melody as the young girl all but skipped down the hall. Her papa was a slow eater, so he no doubt was still on his first biscuit. She could eat as much as she wanted for as long as she wanted, but she only really wanted to eat when he was eating. Eating by herself was lonely, and that made the food flavorless and bland, but eating too much or too fast made her stomach cramp horribly for the rest of the day. She wasn’t self aware enough to realize what foods caused her pain, but somehow her breakfast never contained milk, raw vegetables, or anything greasy. Melody would have been the last to notice since she’d become so fond of the bland breakfast biscuits her papa ate. 

Thurston sat at a small table by a window. Melody’s plate was already made for her with a stack of biscuits and a hot cup of tea. She often put too much cinnamon or honey on to her biscuits if given the opportunity, so Thurston had only set out just enough to suit her tastes. She hopped up on the chair across from him and beamed. “Morning Papa!” She kicked her feet up on the legs of her chair. “Good morning, Melody. You seem well.” He sipped his tea silently, but Melody could see his eyes sparkle. Growing pains ran in their family, and for generations they had refined a balm that would ease the pains of growth and slow it down. She bit her lip thinking about some of the more terrible nights of aches and wobbly legs, but then nodded. “Margret is very good with the balm. My knees don’t hurt in the morning.” After a moment, she collected herself, sat properly, and tried to imitate him. 

“So, um, Papa…” She looked over her tea cup and cocked an eyebrow to mirror him. She wanted to be like him. He was the image of everything she admired. “Uncle Tycho’s becoming a master? And Gran’s having a dinner for him?” She set her cup down when he did and pursed her lips like he did. “And I’m to stay out of the way?” But when he smiled, she couldn’t mirror that. Her own smile was too wide, too wild, too young to match the small restrained smirk of the elderly. 

“Tycho is joining the ranks of masters soon enough. He begins that journey next month. Master Lesot, Gran, is hosting a celebration. It would be wise for you to avoid him, but that is no fault of your own. I simply do not know how Tycho will react to a child, and I do not trust him to not be a right prick about it.” Melody snorted at his language. Thurston was always eloquent and chose the best words for his meaning, but that caught her off guard.

“Papa,” she began after wiping her face. “Why aren’t you a master? You’re the smartest person I know…” He looked down at her, dark brows furrowed. His pale blue eyes briefly seemed distant. “Because becoming a master is not the end all and be all of living. I could have devoted thirty years of my life to sorcery and earned the rank of master, or I could have lived my life as I deemed fit. The two people who made you, the woman who gave birth to you and the man who participated, could either have pursued mastery or raised you. Well I wanted a child but never had one, so I snatched you up and we all won.”

“But… Why didn’t you have a kid..? You weren’t going to pursue mastery anyways…” Thurston smiled sadly before reaching out and brushing some crumbs off of Melody’s face. “Life has a way of screwing us over. But if I had to do it all again, I’d do it just the same because I know it would bring me to you.”

\---

Tycho was a massive man.

When Melody had followed Thurston to the dinner party, she had long been used to tall relatives. She herself was tall for her age, but Tycho was massive. For the man wasn’t simply tall, he was wide. He was brawny like an ox and moved with clear graceful intention like a great ship navigating icebergs. If Thurston was a fox, this man was a dragon. He stood speaking to Lesot, the champagne flute looking far too delicate for his mass. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he could have snapped Lesot in half, but the old sorcerer was a woman without peer. Her magic was unbreakable. Some brute couldn’t lay a hand on her.

Thurston left Melody behind with Margret as he meandered towards Lesot and Tycho. Her maid and handler waited dutifully behind her before gesturing to the other children. But those children were loud and harsh. They said and assumed things that Melody hated. A boy had once called her an unwanted bastard, so she made sure to steer clear of her peers. But when she looked back up, she caught Tycho’s gaze.

His eyes were deep and dark like the night sky reflected in lake water. Her own eyes were so brown that they were nearly black, but his felt like an abyss pulling her in. He bore down upon her with an aloof glare, and she felt his terrible judgement. Thurston had been right. This man didn’t know how to interact with children, and when he finally broke away Melody ducked behind Margret and pulled her towards the bathrooms.

There were very rare occasions where Tycho saw the child he’d helped create. This occasion was a rare family dinner, a celebration of his own admission into the Masters program at the Dragon School. It was expected, of course, but it was still cause for celebration. He sat to the left of the family matriarch, his grandmother. Her home was large and ornate filled with polished stone, dark oak, and shimmering tapestries. Every piece of furniture, every stone tile, every ounce of air crackled with her sorcery. Even in her golden years, Lesot was a powerful woman. 

But what caught his eye was the empty chair to her right. Her brother, Thurston, was her shadow. She spoke and he turned her words into action. Tycho cocked an eyebrow before turning to her. Lesot simply reclined in her dining chair, brandy in hand, and smiled. “Thurston always wanted a child, my dear boy. He tucks the little creature into bed himself.” It had been nearly a decade since he’d handed his great-uncle the infant, but he thought he had done so out of some moral obligation. Lesot cackled at his confusion before placing a gnarled hand on his wrist. “Dear boy, why on earth do you think he would have suggested you hand the babe over? Didn’t it seem odd?” 

“It did.” His voice rumbled through his chest like thunder. The man had no previous qualms with cutting life short, and yet he had insisted Tycho keep the unborn child out of some form of responsibility. His argument had been so thin that Tycho couldn’t understand it, but he respected his uncle far too much to question it. Now he couldn’t help but smile. “She has my eyes.” Her face had been so foreign to him-- too sharp and thin, but her eyes made him feel like he was staring in a mirror. He had noticed how she avoided the other children and ducked away from him the moment she could-- much like he was, she was suffering for the circumstances of her birth.

But not too much, he thought as he looked at his uncle’s empty chair. All it took was a little love to change a life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let there be no confusion: Melody is a trans man who transitioned after puberty. He was comfortable as a girl and is comfortable with having been a girl as a child, but he is not comfortable with being misgendered as an adult. He is a man, and went through the equivalent of HRT and top surgery before being cursed. 
> 
> Tycho is his birth father. Lesot is Tycho's grandmother, and Thurston is his great uncle. Thurston raised Melody, so while Melody is aware that Thurston is his great-great uncle, he still calls him "Papa". Thurston is also a trans man. But this story is not about Thurston.
> 
> Further clarification: a form of giantism runs in Melody's family. It's fantasy giantism, so they treat it differently than how we would. Without the balm noted in the chapter, Melody would have died very young due to complications. Outside of the fic, this is seen as both a blessing and a curse. They can appear to be lord-kin because of this, but untreated it causes far more problems than it's worth. Rumors had spread that they had the blood of a lord, but they don't. That is in part how they rose to power as a crime family.


	15. Last Assassination

“Can you hand me the one you just put down?” Melody gestured to the small ornate book near Orbeck’s elbow. The two men sat across from each other at a long table on the highest floor of the archives. Orbeck looked around him until his gaze fell on the book, and at Melody’s confirmation he handed it over. “Thank you.” It was genuinely warm where they sat. Large stained glass windows lined the western wall and let in the dying sunlight as if it were any other sunset. From their table the two men could overlook the rest of the archives-- as none of the floors had complete ceilings and their section was at the very rear of the library, they could watch the sunlight filter down to the very doors they’d arrived through.

Even with the irritating wax, Melody felt more at peace in the archives with Orbeck than he had since Lurr died. Here, at the end of all things, he was reading whatever struck his fancy alongside his chance companion. Orbeck wouldn’t have ever been someone he would have approached in life, but he was glad to have found him in undeath. He was a rather pretty man too. Orbeck wasn’t the sort of man that Melody would have pursued, but that was simply personal taste. There was no doubt in his mind that if Orbeck had been born into a family like his own, then his youth would have been kind, and he would have been the very image of a scholarly heart throb. But that wasn’t something Melody would tell him. It could only be taken as a backhanded compliment, and he had no intention to insult Orbeck after everything.

As he flipped open the book to scan for information regarding souls, channeling, and sorcery, he heard heavy footsteps marching through the bookshelves towards them. When Melody startled, Orbeck jumped and readied for a fight. A familiar face, a round faced young woman in plate and chain stabbed a finger out at them and asked accusingly, “You two do this?” Orbeck immediately relaxed after recognizing his patron, but it was Melody who answered her. When stressed, he often began to stutter or babble. He hunched, wrung his hands, and stumbled out, “Ah. Um. Yes. Yes we did.” Orbeck watched him as he wobbled back and forth with the words. “Much easier than a knife. Yes?” He had meant that it was an easier death, but he cringed at how cold his words sounded. Not that the girl cared.

She folded her arms over her chest and glared down upon the two of them. “Who killed Gotthard?” Her words were like the Flame itself. “Did you see it?” The knight, a short man in scuffed plate, placed his hand on her shoulder as she continued to speak. “Who killed my friend?”

Orbeck paused in thought, his eyes narrowing as he tried to place who this man was. “Gotthard..? The man in black out before the doors? He was a friend of yours?” He glanced towards Melody who understood his pride and his skills. Wren was his patron. Melody had fought alongside her before. If her companion hadn’t been so doting, he likely would have tried to get him alone. Neither of them wanted Wren in harms way more than she had to be. For Orbeck, he was in debt. For Melody, her mentor was very attractive. 

“Wren of Mirrah,” Orbeck began. “You have paid me time and time again for a service you have never accepted. Allow me to fulfil my debt to you in another manner.” She scrunched her face in confusion as both Orbeck and Melody reached for their catalysts. Despite the differences in their lives, they used the same sort of instrument. A gnarled oaken branch that had been shaped through their own sorceries. 

The two men concealed themselves as mist, and almost immediately Wren began to look for them. She radiated fury and bloodlust, but the knight beside her held her back and whispered to her. For a moment, Melody was jealous. He and Orbeck were equals, but that girl had someone she could fall on. If he fell, he’d take Orbeck down with him. He had to strive all the more to ensure he never fell far and that Orbeck never fell beyond his reach. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost his companion. Not again. Not after… Whatever it was that had happened to Lurr.

Through practice they could recognize each other even as mist. Where the light bent as if hitting still water, Melody would find Orbeck. Where the air wavered like pavement on a hot day, Orbeck would find Melody. When they held still, it was almost as if they didn’t exist at all. They moved through the shelves to the upper balcony. It was a thin walkway that spanned the circumference, but even it was crammed with bookcases and old literature. 

They slipped between two heavy bookcases to an archway that opened up to the flat stone roof of a lower level of the archives. There were empty sections of fenced in dirt and long dead plants, and if it weren’t for the burning sky, it would have been a lovely place to simply sit and take in life. But while clearing out the archives, Orbeck had spotted three people guarding this place. It had seemed prudent to leave them be rather than pick a fight they didn’t need to bother with. But now the two men were obligated.

Three people stood on guard at the far end of the dead garden. The first of which was a heavily armored man leaning lazily on a large axe. Melody recognized the blue fabric and fur of his armor as a mercenary of Forrossa. His crested helm and wide shoulders gave him a magnificent silhouette, but he did not want to risk getting tangled up with him. Directly behind him was a woman in a wide brimmed hat. It covered her face, but that didn’t matter since she was so far away Melody wouldn’t be able to make it out regardless. Far more interesting was her catalyst-- it was gnarled like his and Orbeck’s, but held in the roots at the very top was a massive crystal. The third man hung in the shadows. It was doubtful that he was truly trying to hide, but his armor was a thick black leather and most assuredly unbearably hot. His armor was identical to Gotthard’s, but where Gotthard had had two straight swords, he had long curved knives. 

“The Mist?”

“The Mist.”

They would need to kill the three of them in one sweep. The sorcerer would likely be the one to spot them or figure out what was happening first, so they needed to target her. Melody’s stomach churned at the thought of killing genuine people, but he trusted Orbeck. His friend, of all people, understood the price one paid for taking a life. He would not lead Melody into this lightly. And so Orbeck took the lead yet again. 

He darted forward with his knife in one hand and catalyst in the other. The Black Hand glanced up as Melody darted past him, but he quickly passed it off as a trick of the light. They stopped some distance behind the trio before raising their catalysts and blowing the pestilent mist into the center of the group. As they targeted the sorcerer, she was the first to waver. It didn’t take long for the other two to feel the effects of the mist, but they wouldn’t be as aware of it as she was.

The mist was a terrible sorcery that was older than either of the two men. Far older. It had been a staple of Vinheim assassins for generations and likely continued to be if Vinheim still stood. It did not attack the body like a poison or the mind like a hex but rather the souls. It directly siphoned the souls of those around it to power itself; it appeared nearly invisible like a cloud of vapor, but it sapped the souls from anything living or undead, consumed them, and continued until either there was nothing left or the caster stopped it. The faster it killed someone, the fewer souls they had left. 

Melody watched as the Black Hand fell first. He collapsed on the ground drawing the attention of his fellows. The sorcerer’s eyes lit up as she realized what was happening, but before she could act on it, Orbeck threw the knife he carried into her chest. She sputtered, catalyst briefly flaring, before falling to her knees. In moments, she turned to ash. The last of them, the knight, scrambled to her ashes ready to fight whatever invisible attacker had killed his companions. He swung haphazardly in the direction the knife pointed, but Melody and Orbeck were fast to step out of his way. 

He caught the waver of light and followed it, his axe grazing Melody’s coat. The sorcerer’s ring muffled his surprised yelp. The knight was focused on following the wavering light and kept slicing closer and closer to Melody as he danced away. He had no way of fighting someone so heavily armored with such an intense weapon without giving himself entirely away, or at least he not while he was panicking. While they danced, Melody fearing for his unlife, Orbeck broke from his illusion, and raised his catalyst. 

There was a powerful blue flash, the shriek of souls like ice on glass, and the knight fell dead.

Melody breathed heavily as Orbeck approached him. As ever, he couldn’t decipher the subtle expression Orbeck wore. It looked like a dark glare, but he’d long since learned to stop assuming he could read his friend’s face. If he wanted to know how he felt, he had to ask.

And so he did.

“Orbeck!” Melody reached out and grabbed the man’s arms just above the wrist. “Are you ok? They didn’t touch you, but…” He ran his hand down Orbeck’s arm from his shoulder to his wrist, smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat. He scoffed before picking a piece of wax off of Melody’s shoulder.

“That went very well. I am perfectly well. It’s you I worry about.” He frowned before adjusting Melody’s coat and fixing his scarf in return. “This was never meant to be your life, and I worry what sort of toll it’s taking on you. I like you much better when you’re reading in the library than when you’re barely avoiding an axe.” He paused with his hands still on Melody’s scarf. For a moment he was lost in his friends sorrowful dark eyes. Soft eyes like his were not meant to hurt like this. He belonged in a library or a smithy-- somewhere warm and away from pain.

“Well I like you better in a library too. You look quite noble with a stack of books around you. Even with this awful wax…” Melody peeled off a small piece of flaking wax from Orbeck’s shoulder. He really hated the stuff, and he suspected that Orbeck would look quite handsome without it. “So… let’s wrap up this debt so we can go back to our books…” The sorrow in Melody’s eyes shifted to longing, and it was then that Orbeck decided he’d find a place to read that wasn’t cursed.

They turned down the path away from the Archives and towards the castle. The two Unkindled would seek the lord that resided there, and that lord would be Orbeck’s final payment.

\---

Melody was exhausted. He trudged after Orbeck to the archives after dodging more knights, more hollows, and more axes. But they had located the Lord of Cinder, and they had found a way to get the two knights to that lord with as little fighting as possible. They stepped into the catwalk above the pair who had remained by their reading table. Melody kicked down a locked ladder and watched as Wren jumped. He slid down the ladder and held his hand out for Orbeck as his companion followed, but Orbeck seemed to miss the gesture. He pinched his brow and waved a hand at the girl. “It is done.”

She first stared at Orbeck in disbelief, then she noticed Melody. Her jaw fell open as she gawked, and Melody felt her stare like a knife digging into him. That was the look of his childhood. He curled inward waiting for her judgement, her comments on his height, his gangly limbs, anything cruel. Though he knew Orbeck could not hide him, he found himself slipping behind his friend, and somehow in doing so snapped Wren out of it.

When he spoke, Orbeck’s voice was filled with tightly controlled vitriol. “I cannot repay the debt I owe you so easily, but that should be worth something.” Though Melody had never expected such a tone to bring him any semblance of happiness, he felt as though a flame spread within his chest-- Orbeck was defending him…

The girl’s face shifted into fury and frustration as she processed Orbeck’s statement. “Wait-- you killed them?! Who did it? Why didn’t you let--” Before she could rile herself up, her knight placed a hand on her shoulder and reeled her in.

“ Wren. Revenge is not a path you ever want to take. You saw what I did to Patches without even knowing if Siegward was hurt…” His voice was gentle like a father’s as she pulled away from him. “Revenge is best left unsatisfied…” 

She jerked her head towards Orbeck, eyes glassy, and said with words like knives, “Fine. Orbeck. Don’t ever pay me back again.” Melody had withered under her glare, but his friend had given him strength. Orbeck had been his shield, and he would stand behind him for as long as he would have him. Unseen, he pressed his knuckles into Orbeck’s lower back. He was there. He would stay.

“Uh, thanks Orbeck.” Ernest began to speak while Wren pouted. “I uh. I mean it. If someone took down Gotthard that easily, Wren and I wouldn’t really have been able to take them. Not head on like that. But uh, if you still want to repay your debt, which I don’t think actually counts. Since. Well really those scrolls were gifts. Not… payment. I never had any real intent to learn sorcery…” The man looked between the sorcerers and spoke in a way that reminded Melody of a youth asking someone out for a romantic evening. Shy and uncertain. “There’s one last lord of cinder we need to take down. The prince. And uh… If you could help us clear the way…” 

Melody pressed his hand more insistently against Orbeck’s back. Whatever his decision, he would be there for him. “Very well,” Orbeck began. “If it’s the Lords of Cinder you seek, and if it will clear my debt once and for all, then I will join you.” He glanced back, and Melody nodded. “As will my companion. Here is what I can tell you.”

Melody watched as Orbeck began to describe the layout of the castle and the bridge that led to it. The man truly was something. More and more he felt as though the world had been denied a beautiful mind by the powers that were denying Orbeck a proper education. He was a capable strategist, a phenomenal sorcerer, and an extremely determined man. “...If you want the supposed lord of cinder, you’ll have to deal with both of them.”

“They’re not lords of cinder…” The knight frowned at the map Orbeck had cobbled together for them. “I don’t know why we need them… They don’t have any flame. Having them won’t open the way any more than it’s already been opened. What point is there in burning them…?” He sighed. “It doesn’t sit right by me at all…”

The girl reached out and tugged on his wrist with a soft smile. “Well, maybe Ernie they don’t have to burn. Maybe we can talk to them. Maybe, since Lothric was born to be slaughtered, he’s come up with another plan. We might be in luck.”

“Maybe. Look, Orbeck, Melody…. I don’t expect you to uh. To join us. You’ve cleared the way. That’s more than I really could have asked of you.” Melody glared. He knew that Orbeck would see this through, and he hated that. He didn’t want his friend to do this, but the knight’s words had already obligated him.

“We will be there.” Melody closed his eyes as Orbeck spoke. “We have as much on the line as the two of you do.”

The knight turned to leave, but the girl remained. “You said there were three…” She sank against the table. “Three people killed Gotthard, but he only had arrows stuck in him….”

“There was a man in black with a bow and two foreign blades. A woman with a marvelous catalyst, and a man in heavy armor and furs with a great axe the likes of which I had not seen before.” Orbeck’s voice was calm, even, and almost warm. Melody marveled at how gentle he was. “You will not find their bodies as they have returned to ash.” Gentle enough to lie to the girl.

“Gotthard wasn’t ash… he was still flesh. He was undead, but not unkindled.” Her brows knitted in thought. “Why would those other three be unkindled? How did you kill three of them when Gotthard couldn’t?”

“Because we played dirty.” Melody spoke up, his voice sharp. Surely the girl had noticed his methods in the dungeons. He was so tired-- it felt as though she was intentionally dense. “The scrolls you brought Orbeck revived magics long forgotten. One such spell allows us to conceal our form nearly perfectly. A spell Orbeck learned long ago allows us to conceal our footsteps and move silently. They never saw us coming.”

“And our weapon was an old trick the assassins of Vinheim hold near and dear. A mist you cannot feel. It kills you from within, and you will never be aware of it. Not if you don’t already know its tells. But you cannot follow us without these magics, and your companion has already left.” The girl jumped when Orbeck pointed out her missing companion. She left the two men without another word as she chased after her knight.

The knights would ride an elevator on the far end of the bridge, and the two sorcerers would slip across the bridge undetected. They waited quietly, though without candles they had no true way to tell how much time passed. The sun no longer moved, and their hearts were not reliable. So Melody began to sing just softly enough that Orbeck couldn’t quite hear him. From what he could catch, it was a soft tune and a lovely tune. He had no idea if his companion could sing well, but he would rather hear him than not.

“Melody--” He began but before he could ask, his companion flinched and the elevator began to crank and rise. His intention completely missed, Melody assumed it was time to begin and disappeared.

They slipped past the great doors into the foyer where the Prince rested. The boy had been ill from birth, largely bedridden, but he was still expected to bear the responsibility of a Lord. And he would be Orbeck’s final assassination. Either the Prince did not notice Orbeck and Melody, or he ignored them, for shortly after they slipped in the room, Ernest and Wren stomped in behind them. The two men slipped up the foyer to the altar at the end of the hall. The Prince sat reclined on a white bed while he spoke to the two knights. He was confident, and he had every reason to be, for despite his weak body, his magic was unmatched. 

His brother clambered out as the Prince addressed the knights. Their words were meaningless, and Orbeck tuned them out. They were distractions he could not afford to humor, as this would be his most dangerous target yet. Melody watched in horror as the crippled knight, the other prince, teleported across the room very nearly killing the two who fought him. He was terrified that the knight-prince might notice the two sorcerers and turn his attention on them, but before he could, Orbeck reached the Prince.

“Brother--!” He was fast. His hand on the Prince’s jaw turned his head so that he could more swiftly and effectively slit his throat. Ash, blood, and flame flowed from his neck as Orbeck pulled the knife across him. As soon as his blade was free, he jammed it into the Prince’s back and into his heart. His brother roared as he charged towards the sorcerers, but before he could cover any ground, Melody pelted him with soul spears-- each spear grew stronger with his intent to kill. Each spear was made of condensed soul magic, and as his desire to protect his friend grew stronger, the prince below him grew weaker. Only when his body was ash did Melody relent.

The concealment faded, and Orbeck stood over the corpse of the dead Prince covered in his ash and blood. He dug his knife into the Prince’s chest before tearing out his ember-- a fist sized burning object. He staggered towards Wren and pressed the object into her hands. He was so tired… so very tired… “And that.” He shook where he stood. “Will be my last assassination. I will not be taking any further payment of any kind.” When he turned, Melody was waiting. He embraced his friend and pulled him close to his chest. He ran his hand over his back and held his head. He didn’t care if the two knights still stood there-- he only cared to hold his companion.

It was about time they took a break.


	16. By the Bonfire

It wasn’t hard to move a bonfire, but it was tedious. One first had to extinguish it by pulling out the cast iron sword from its center, and then every scrap of ash and bone had to be carefully collected. That was its fuel, and without it the bonfire would not relight. So the two sorcerers, exhausted from their trials, gently moved the remaining ashes of the two princes and the sword from a distant fire to their study. When they plunged the iron sword into the heart of the pile, it caught flame and a weak warmth began to emanate from it.

Melody dropped to the ground beside it. He slumped over as he all but laid on top of the fire, and Orbeck soon joined him. He rested his head on Melody’s shoulder, the wax sticking to his companion’s coat, before finally murmuring, “You’re right. This feels horrible. I need to get it off…” He pulled his flask from his pocket, held it to the flame, then dumped the contents over his head. It ran freely down his back like water melting the wax and vaporizing it as it went. Such was the nature of the Unkindled and the flame-- it wasn’t that it cleaned them so much as restored them to what they had been before.

Still, Melody felt as though he was watching Orbeck bathe. A flush came to his cheeks as his companion’s coat cleared of the wax and ash and blood and returned to its deep inky black. His friend’s hair returned to the glossy black and weak waves. His face cleared and his skin grew rosey with life and flame; then it passed, and his skin was as pale as ever. When Orbeck turned, Melody was still covered in wax and filth. He raised a brow, and snapping back to reality, Melody dunked his own head in the heat of the flame. His transformation was similar, but he wanted to take it further. Rather than simply dump it over his head and call it good, he felt like he needed to work it through his hair and over his body to truly be clean. He pulled his hair free of its tight bun -- the black locks falling behind him to the middle of his back -- and began to work the flame through it like he would soap. 

Orbeck watched as he scrubbed so fiercely it seemed as though he would hurt himself. He reached out and caught Melody’s wrist to stop him. “Let me get your hair.” His voice was soft like ash. His eyes as pale. “I can see it better than you.” Melody regarded him warily at first, then slumped down so that Orbeck could reach his head, but Orbeck guided him to lean back over his lap so that they were face to face with Melody’s hair laying by the flame. When Orbeck began to run his fingers through his hair and rub his scalp free of whatever wax and debris there was (perceived or otherwise), Melody relaxed so thoroughly that he felt he might fall asleep. When Orbeck’s hands ran over his hairline, he gently rubbed Melody’s temples. Melody’s eyes grew heavy, and try as he might he found himself dozing. Orbeck took that time to admire just how long Melody’s hair really was. How silky and strong it was, how well he must have cared for himself. He ran his thumb over the soft facial hair that framed Melody’s temples and jaw, and before long the man was sleeping.

His companion was long and thin. He often looked like he might bend with the wind like a reed in a storm. In the light of the dying flame, laying with his thin hands over his stomach, his black hair splayed out above him, and his head on Orbeck’s lap, he looked otherworldly. Such a delicate creature should not be in such a harsh existence, yet Melody persisted. In a moment of fondness, Orbeck bent down and pressed a soft kiss to Melody’s forehead. 

While his companion slept, Orbeck began an entry in his journal.

_ We have slain the two princes. The eldest was born to be a sacrifice to the Flame, and thus his soul needed to be brought to the shrine. Two knights, my patrons, sought this end. As they have never collected compensation for their efforts as my patrons, I chose to repay them in this. The ember torn from the elder prince did not resemble the embers we consume to keep ourselves warm. It was larger, the size of my fist, and glowing brightly. I do wonder if the two knights who sought this will restore order to this world or if the end is simply long overdue.  _

_ The bonfire with us is weaker than it has been in the past. I doubt there is truly much time left in this cycle, and so it is even more important that we chronicle it.  _

\---

When Melody awoke, Orbeck was leaning over to the side and writing. He looked so noble, so studious, as he wrote. His brows furrowed in thought, the quil scratching on the parchment-- Vinheim had been robbed of a brilliant man. Melody reached up to brush a lock of hair from his friend’s forehead, his fingers tracing down Orbeck’s jaw as his companion turned from his journal. “Sleep well?”

“Never better.” Melody made no attempt to move. “Between you and the bonfire, I am the most comfortable I have been since becoming Unkindled.”

“Even more comfortable than when you had a view of Andre?”

Melody turned pink as Orbeck smirked. He had made no attempt to hide his attraction to the smith-- he was by all means Melody’s type-- but he didn’t like to be teased for it. He ineffectively swatted at Orbeck but remained where he was on his friend’s lap. “Is that why you took my spot? So you could watch him work? Well, if you’ve wanted to make me less comfortable, you have succeeded, but I am not moving. That shall be your punishment.”

“Oh no.” Orbeck’s smirk shifted into a genuine smile. “What ever shall I do? You have pinned me here until the Fire dies and we fade into ash.” Still, he turned back to his journal but did not yet resume writing. “As for Andre? No. He’s not my type. Not that it matters any more.”

“What is your type..? Back when you were alive, what did you look for? I’ll be the first to admit that I became a smith because I liked the people who worked as smiths. I thought it’d be easier to find a partner if there were more choices, but…” He shrugged, his shoulders bumping Orbeck’s thigh.

“To be honest,” Orbeck avoided Melody’s gaze. “I was so rarely in a position where I could pursue someone that it didn’t matter even then. When I did enjoy my time with someone, it didn’t really matter. Or there was no clear trait I looked for. I sought out men exclusively, but beyond that.” He shrugged.

“I would have married you.”

Orbeck sputtered, confused at the statement. He glared down at Melody who stared back at him with a matter of fact expression.

“You were forced into your life because of your status. I died in my thirties-- even if I met someone, no one would have batted an eye if I took a lover. If I married you, you would have been a part of my family. My status would have extended to you, and you could have attended the dragon school with me. And maybe…” He glanced at the bonfire. “Maybe I would have had someone to hold me back before I tripped down the stairs and broke my neck.”

Orbeck closed his journal and turned back to Melody. He ran his hand over his friend’s long hair, running his fingers through it as he reached the end. “I know you well enough to understand your honesty. I know you well enough to believe you.” He paused as Melody shifted to sit beside him, leaning on his hip so that they were eye to eye. “I would have respected your wishes, but I would have wanted to try to court you first.” In Orbeck’s world, marriage had been an affair of love. All were equal in status down in the mire, and a marriage only benefited the immediate family. There were no politics.

For Melody, marriage was a way to retain one’s status and elevate themself. With his family name, he had no reason to attempt to climb the social ladder, and with no intention to produce a child himself, there was no issue with a bloodline. An adopted child would be as valid an heir as any child, but there would be no worry of offending some relative by denying the creation of another child. He was a bastard himself, after all. He giggled at the thought of Orbeck trying to court him-- no doubt he would have thought the man was coming for his life even without understanding his attire. He placed a hand on Orbeck’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “I would much rather have you as my friend than have you pursue me.”

“Am I really so unappealing?” Orbeck pulled away with his mouth ajar. “That you laugh at the notion?”

“Oh far from it-- but you remember our early days?” Melody shifted back, a thin but genuine smile on his face. “I thought you hated me. I can’t imagine how I would have interpreted you flirting.” He had meant it as comfort, but Orbeck’s face darkened.

“I had known you were uncomfortable, but that had never been my intention.”

“Well.” Melody drew his legs in front of him and tugged Orbeck in another friendly shake. “It was certainly worth it. And right now there is no place I would rather be than by your side exploring this grand library.”

“We’ll need more wax for that.”

“Ugh. Oh gods.”


	17. Final Hours

The candles seemed to burn forever. Melody watched as the wax slowly dripped down the side of a long thin candle. It pooled at the base in a silver handle, but it seemed as though the candle itself would never go out. By their measure a candle like that should only have six hours of burn time, and thus they couldn’t have been there for more than a week, but he’d filled several journals with his research and conjecture. He was _not_ that prolific of a writer or a researcher. But in addition to those journals, he had since filled two journals with simple mundane observations-- how he felt, how the world seemed, his own mental state, the strange sensation of stagnation and dread that filled him when he looked upon the bonfire. He found himself giggling as he thought of all he had written.

An entire journal with crammed writing detailed what he could remember of his life and previous undeath. He wrote all he remembered desperately as if he was losing it. His uncle, his childhood, the biscuits he once loved, his favorite flavor of tea-- all of these things he committed to paper like his life depended on it. He strove to remember what Lurr looked like and sketched him from memory. Orbeck had watched him as he drew him over and over until the last of his drawings looked nothing like the first of them and a cold fear sunk in as he realized he didn’t know what Lurr looked like anymore.

The first of his drawings were of a man with a round face and partially undone Legion attire. The man in the drawings had a bulbous nose and wrinkles around his eyes. The eyes changed shape with each iteration-- first they angled downwards like a sort of sorrowful expression, then they opened more, then became heavy and partially shut. The mouth shifted from hearty lips to thin frowns. No matter what he drew, none of them looked right. Each person was a stranger to him.

In a moment of inspiration, he began to sketch Orbeck. He was easy to capture with ink. His face seemed suited to the sharp lights and darks of Melody’s hatching. Orbeck watched him at first but quickly grew embarrassed by the silent attention. He committed his friend’s blush to the parchment. His wavy hair, the way it shined, the stern look of his face, the sharp cut of his jaw. “I will not forget you,” he had said beneath his breath. “Not your eyes, not your face, not your manner. I will not let go so easily.”

Orbeck listened to Melody giggle, but he did not question it. Rather he smiled at the sound-- his laughter was like a chime in the wind. With a little faith, he could call upon miracles with something as small as a chuckle. And perhaps it was a miracle as Orbeck was determined to record Melody’s likeness. He did not have the luxury of being able to practice artwork in his lifetime or previous undeath, but he seemed to have that luxury now. He sketched first with the charcoal crayons the girl had taught him to make, though they had a tendency to smudge and smear as he worked with them. Each attempt grew more and more lifelike-- Orbeck understood learning by observation and paying attention to detail so he was a fast learner. 

The paper scratched beneath his quill as he drew out a weak sketch in thinned ink. There would be a circle first-- he’d been watching Melody before-- and from there he could block out the jaw, the nose, the hair… He had practiced Melody’s nose several times. It wasn’t an abnormal nose, but when it didn’t look right, nothing looked right. And so he continued to scratch out the man’s face. 

“Orbeck..?” Melody was looking down on his paper. Instinctively Orbeck began to try and hide what he was doing before relaxing and meeting Melody’s questioning gaze. “Is that what I look like?” He peeked down at the drawing then back up. 

“You don’t know?” Orbeck had become confident in his skills. Confident enough to know that what he had put on paper did indeed look like his friend. Melody frowned downwards at the drawing before shaking his head.

“It has been a very long time since I’d seen myself. I expected more decay.” He reached to his jaw, his long thin fingers brushing his chin and cheek. “I know the unkindled aren’t hollow anymore but…” Orbeck watched as Melody forced a smile. “I think you’ve made me too handsome. I wasn’t that pretty even in life--”

“I am simply drawing what I see before me.” He wouldn’t let his friend disparage himself for something as petty as this. There were so many more important things they needed to do with their time.

Melody’s smile softened and became a bit more genuine. “I will take your word for it.” He stood from the table to collect more candles to account for the dying light from the bonfire. The sky grew darker as if it were a true dusk, and out of unease Melody chose to sit next to Orbeck. The man had forfeited his attempted sketches for the moment and began to furiously write. Melody watched how his hands flew over the paper as fluid and beautiful as a river.

The Flame hit him like a shock of ice water. Melody jolted upwards as he felt the fire surge through him then pass on. Orbeck jerked backwards, his writing sharply veering off the page. When the Fire moved on, there was only Cold. The sky began to darken into what should have been night. His hands trembled as he reached for his journal and began to record what he’d just felt. Orbeck drew the candles closer to fill the void the bonfire left. The two men looked to the ashes, and all was dark save for the sword in the center. It clung to small embers about it, but even those were beginning to fade. 

“We don’t have long.” Orbeck spoke as his hands trembled. His fluid, beautiful letters were growing shaky and uncertain. Melody wrote with a staunch determination to record this, but he found his arms grew tired and heavy. His head grew tired. His body, cold. When he could finally write no longer, he slumped onto his friend. Orbeck’s body was cool, but it felt warmer than his own. For a brief moment he was reminded of his uncle claiming that he just wanted to “steal his heat” one winter when he’d asked to be carried above the snow.

He stood, legs like lead, and pulled Orbeck to the remnants of the Flame. The two men sat by it with their journals abandoned. There was no light left for the windows to let in as the Flame grew cold and dead. But the world around them did not die. The candles still lit the archives about them, and there was a warmth that neither of them could feel. The age of Dark was upon them, but they had long ago been bound to the Flame.

Orbeck pulled Melody close to him as they slumped to the ground. The cold seemed to consume them-- their Flame extinguished. They were ashes, they were Ashen. The remnants of a fire that had used them and discarded them. Melody ran his hand up Orbeck’s arm before settling it on his shoulder. Face to face in the Dark, the only way he could find him was his touch. Orbeck drew closer to his friend, their bodies growing cold, until their breaths mingled. “I love you,” he whispered. “I mean it. I love you.”

Melody leaned forward until their foreheads were together. “I love you, Orbeck.” His voice was hoarse, but when he spoke bits of ash and ember flew from his mouth. “I could not ask for a better friend. A more capable friend. My dear companion.” As he shook, he drew closer into Orbeck’s embrace. His hand on Orbeck’s shoulder balled into a tight fist grabbing both the man and his coat into a fierce grip. Orbeck’s arms had reached around Melody’s shoulders and waist holding him firmly against him unwilling to let go even as they faded. Yet despite being slow and cold, it was not a miserable end. 

“Do you think,” Orbeck murmured through the ash in his mouth, “we will be back? Is the Flame done with us yet?”

Melody, shaking and tired, let out a soft and sad whine. “I don’t want to come back…”

\---

The candles dripped and burned until the library was dark. When the Flame had nothing left to consume, true Dark settled, and on the top floor of the once-Grand Archives lay a single pile of ash waiting for the wind to carry with it and all the life it once had away into the new age of man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sirris_Sunless for the regular encouragement and the MARVELOUS art piece (@sirriiiiiiiiiis on twitter).
> 
> I'm going to print that out and eat it!


	18. Journal Entries

**[Melody]**

Though I am an expendable undead and in no way noteworthy, I am one of the few with access to the means with which I might record the end of my life (in the loosest of terms) and the events within it. My experiences may prove valuable to whatever comes after the Flame is linked as I have found no records of the Unkindled in any text. The Flame appears to predate written history though it is far more likely that the records were simply lost.

I am a sorcerer, one of many, from the land of Vinheim. There are many records of sorcerers and Vinheim, so I need not cover that. I travel with a fellow Unkindled. To be undead is to be cursed to seek souls and to have risen after one’s initial death. To be “Unkindled” is to be revived a second time as the curse grows more powerful and the Flame weaker. An undead leaves a corpse made of flesh and bone, but the Unkindled leave behind mere ash. We bleed, we cry, we feel, and by all accounts we seem to be alive, but we also burn from within. We must seek embers from the Flame to stay warm lest we turn into husks and drift away in the wind.

For now, I will simply describe what I observe. My companion and I sit across from each other at a table in the Grand Archives. We are perched on the top floor near several great windows that let in the dying light. It is warmer where we are than the first floor both thanks to the windows and the simple fact that warm air rises. Beyond the windows I can see the sky. It is red like a sunset that reminds me of the old adage “red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” I cannot say I have known any sailors, but the imagery the saying evokes in me is the same that I observe here. 

Hanging in the sky where the sun should be is a great gaping black hole. It seems to syphon the fire from the horizon into it like the dark sign that was once burned upon my undead flesh. It is not like an eclipse. In an eclipse, the shadow of the moon falls upon the world and dims the light like a cool dusk. The sun is still apparent with beautiful strands of gold and white emanating from behind the moon. What hangs above me now is more like a hole that has been burned into fabric.

Whatever that might mean for we Unkindled, I cannot say. I am still sound of mind and body. I do not feel ill or cold, though I am more comfortable now than I have been in a very long time. The comfort of a friend can make even the bitter cold warm. I would hate to be here alone. I think I would have gone hollow by now.

Two knights required our aid in revenge and progress. The first knight was a young woman while the second was a man who appeared to be my age. I suspect he was far older. My companion will no doubt write about the deed. I have no desire to remember it. Ever since then, I fear I cannot remember my past.

I have filled an entire journal with a sort of haphazard autobiography. I do not care if it survives the end of Fire. I wrote it to see what I could remember. There are great gaps missing, and I wonder if that was from hollowing in my previous incarnation or if I am growing hollow even now. Perhaps that is important enough to share. I cannot remember several years of my life. I cannot remember my Uncle’s death, but I remember parts of his funeral. I remember attending classes at the Dragon School, but not first attending or who my teachers were. I cannot remember the majority of my family, but I can remember my uncle as if I were looking at him.

More worrying, I cannot remember my dear Lurr. I had a companion, a man in the undead legion. I remember that I loved him and that he was kind. I remember his armor. His hollowing spread across him, but I cannot remember how much or in what way. There is a point where I do not remember anything. As though we were together, and then I was unkindled. I have not felt the need to express this to those around me, but I know I went hollow. Something happened, and I gave in. I feel a great sorrow when I try to remember, and so I do not push. 

In my desperate attempts to remember Lurr, I have sketched several people. I do not think any of them are Lurr. I think they were all people, but I do not remember who. At least one of them reminds me of one of the people at the shrine, so I suspect these drawings were all people I have seen, just not the person I want to remember.

The sky continues to grow dark, and I feel a sort of chill settle over me, yet I long for it. I am tired of this continued forced existence. I am glad to have met my companion and learned all that I have, but the dead are meant to remain dead. I feel stretched thin like filling one's diet with sawdust to account for a lack of food. 

There was a terrible pain just now. It felt as though I was burned alive but just up my back. It settled in my skull, but for a moment I thought I felt my dark sign return. I am no longer undead-- I am unkindled. I do not have a dark sign, or I thought I did not. And yet it felt like my souls were being ripped from me. The firekeeper takes our souls gently, but I suspect they were only ever fuel to the flame. Is this what it is to feed the Flame directly? 

I feel heavy like I am ill. I would like to lay in a warm bed with a pot of hot coals at the feet. I grow tired. I’m so tired. 

* * *

**[Orbeck]**

I am Orbeck of Vinheim. For much of my life I chased dreams of scholarship as an assassin waiting for recognition. A good assassin is far too valuable to throw away to the Dragon School, and a poor assassin dies early. I was good at my job, and so I was denied promotion. I died as an assassin. But here and now I am able to study and be the scholar I had always dreamed of. In the empty archives of Lothric, my fellow sorcerer and I have our pick of texts. My last act as a scholar will no doubt be this record.

I am not so presumptuous to assume that this record is important because it is mine, but journals, logs, and diaries have always been invaluable to future generations. If we do not record our existence, then how will those who come after us understand what is happening now?

Though the Fire is truly fading and we Unkindled have risen, I do not fear the Dark. Perhaps within the Dark we can rest. The Fire and the Sun have always been equated, and now that the Flame grows weak, the Sun has become little more than a great black pit. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the dark sign that was once burned upon my flesh and the dark sign that I had seen desperate undead call upon to escape to the Flame. Even so I feel as though I could call upon that curse, but I dare not risk doing so.

Despite all of this, I feel warm. It is likely an emotional response, but perhaps it is a symptom of the Flame’s impending demise. I am inclined to believe both. My companion is a gentle man if a bit bumbling. He often misinterprets my meanings and assumes the worst from my words, but even so he has remained my companion. Perhaps we are both simply that lonely. A future reader, if this survives, may find my records of my social endeavours to be a waste of my time and their own, but I shall record them nonetheless. 

\----

The two princes who ruled this land have been slain. They sought the end of Fire by waiting it out, but I owed a great debt to one of the knights who sought their end. My patron is a young woman by the name of Wren of Mirrah. Her mentor and companion is a man named Ernest of Berenike. I am familiar with Mirrah. I am not familiar with Berenike. 

Despite being lordkin, the princes fell to a simple slit throat and soul spear. I drew the knife across the weakly prince while my companion slayed the knightly prince with magic. The ember I drew from the prince’s heart was a strange and brightly glowing thing. It did not look like the stiff piece of burning shadow that our embers are. It seemed almost more healthy. I will attempt to describe it in drawing and diagram.

We used the remnant ashes to move a bonfire to our study so that we could more easily observe the Flame and perform basic hygiene and maintenance. 

\----

I would have assumed a single candle to burn no more than six hours, but these candles seem to burn for an absurd amount of time. My companion and I had intended to use them to register the passing of time, but that has become impossible. We have replaced the candles twice now, but I have covered every floor of this library determining where what books of interest to me are. I have made several trips to acquire books on a certain topic, but we have not yet had need to replace the candles. It is likely that these candles are enchanted to save scholars the effort of constantly replacing them, but I cannot perceive time.

My companion has produced countless drawings of different men. With each one he grows more distraught. They all wear the same armor (that of the undead legion) but each man is an individual. I worry for my companion. I have not heard of an unkindled going hollow, but he is showing symptoms. If he goes hollow, then I will have to throw out my weak understanding of what it means to be “unkindled”. 

\---

The sky continues to grow darker. I cannot say how long it has been since the two princes were slain, but either the two knights have reached the kiln or it is too late. The man, Ernest, mentioned something about not wanting to continue the age of Fire. I wonder if this is his doing. Melody has moved several candles closer to us to help make up for the fading bonfire.

Flame running up my spine burning like swallowed citrus that didn’t sit well charging from my tailbone up my head then cold needles ice water flushing down throat and settling in the soul. 

Something happened. The fire is dark now. The candles cast light upon it. The ashes are dark save for a small glow about the coiled sword itself. We do not have long. My hand feels heavier as it grows colder my armtired I don’t understand h o w my headfeels so heavy but my thoughts so clear--------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this is complete. Thank you for reading.
> 
> I will note that it's very likely I will re-work several chapters as I have been doing in my other fic. Come back in a year. It might have completely changed by then. Who knows? Not me! -Louie


End file.
